


A Prince Of The Blood

by KadenIV



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Rhaegar won, Blackfyre, Dragon Eggs, F/F, F/M, Forgive Me, Gen, Graphic Description, Graphic Description of Corpses, I have no idea what I'm doing, Ignores show to an extent, Jon Snow is Jaehaerys Targaryen, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Minor Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark, Multi, Old Valyria, Other, Post-Doom Valyria, R plus L equals J, Rhaegar Lives, Smut, Threesome - F/F/M, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-01-25 07:26:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12526100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KadenIV/pseuds/KadenIV
Summary: My own personal take on A Song of Ice and Fire, by George R. R. Martin. Do with it as you will. Is a mixture of both book and show canon, with a fuckload of assumptions and alterations on my part. Written purely for my own entertainment.Jaehaerys Targaryen was always an unruly and rebelious child too much like his parents, given to bouts of anger as well as a mind weighed with tragedy and melancholy. Fearing this anger being directed towards the realm and his family, Rhaegar Targaryen I, sent his son North to ward with his Mother's family in hopes that the Northern chill would soothe the Dragonfire and Wolf's Blood in his veins. But it's been 10 years since the young Prince left for the Northern shores of White Harbor and never arrived. After the ships mangled corpse was found along the Fingers on the Eastern coast of the Vale, stripped of crew and the prince. With no word of ransom, nor tale of his capture, all presumed him dead.





	1. Royalty.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Daemon_Belaerys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daemon_Belaerys/gifts), [serpentguy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/serpentguy/gifts), [DolorousEdditor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DolorousEdditor/gifts), [Doublehex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doublehex/gifts), [Buttersteel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttersteel/gifts), [PumpkinKingofGames](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PumpkinKingofGames/gifts), [Sarra Manderly (TasarienOfCarasGaladhon)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TasarienOfCarasGaladhon/gifts), [Blank402](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blank402/gifts), [CadenceIX](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CadenceIX/gifts), [StaleMemes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StaleMemes/gifts), [ScholaroftheArchive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScholaroftheArchive/gifts), [Avery_Fontaine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avery_Fontaine/gifts).



> I have no clue what I'm doing, but I'm doing it. Everything belongs to GRRM, Game of Thrones and the various creators whose stories prove my inspiration and my support.  
> Would appreciate beta's and the like to help me grow my knowledge of AWOIAF and to also help me rough out my plot. soooooooooooo yeah email is jokonkwo1234@gmail(dot)com

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Prince comes home.

The Lost Prince I

 

Ten years he’d been gone. More than half his life he had spent in the company of rapers, thieves and sellswords. Ten years of constant war and bloodshed. Constantly fighting for his life while those he had named family had lived in their perfumed castle and left him to die. He felt a smirk play against his lips as he looked around one of the passageways he had wandered through as a child when Rhaenys’ teasing hurt that small bit too much.

 _Who would’ve thought these old passages would stay unguarded,_ he chuckled internally as he felt along the wall for the false stone. _I’ll have to change that once I’m sure I’m staying in this shithole._ He’d heard tell of the stench of King’s Landing growing up in Essos, having thankfully forgotten that detail of his childhood home until now. “They really weren’t fucking joking,” he said out loud as he made his way up the stairwell at the end of the passageway that led to a trap door behind his father’s throne. Even this far into the Keep’s subterranean tunnelways the faint stench of piss and shit - from the slums of Flea Bottom - still lingered in the tunnels of the King’s castle.

As he pushed open the square of wood that was part of the dais the Iron Throne sat upon, immediately his senses were assaulted by incenses and perfumes almost as strong as the “Good” Masters of Mereen and Astapor. “There’s nothing good about fat cunts unable to dress themselves” he mumbled under his breath as he kicked the trapdoor back into place and sat against the steps of the Throne’s raised dais and leaned back to look up at the behemoth of a chair. He whistled and laughed to himself.

 _All the wars this continent has fought, all to see who should sit atop a chair made of fucking swords._ “What a joke.” He said out loud to no one in particular,

  _“A King’s seat should never be comfortable, lest the realm bleed for it.”_ He remembered his father telling Aegon at one of the lessons he had been permitted to sit in on. _Aegon III, The Unworthy, The Mad King._ He stared at the hilt of one blackened sword as he recalled the names of Kings who ruined the realm. _Even Maegor, for all his cruelty, heeded sound council and advice._ He grunted thinking of the two that were his name sake, he felt a small smile play at his lips then. Thinking back on one night as a boy he’d asked why he was named Jaehaerys. “ _Your mother,”_ the King replied with a smile both fond and sorrowful, _“made me swear by all the gods, old and new – even my harp – that we’d name you for The Good and The Conciliator.”_ Rhaegar laughed as he continued, “ _’I don’t care about any prophesy, Rhaegar. I know you’d want a Targaryen name so Brandon or Jon won’t make you happy, but if he’s a boy, I want his name to have meaning. Not a conqueror or a warrior, a good name.’ She was quiet for a moment, her brows furrowed in thought, the same way yours do when you can’t pronounce a word in your studies of High Valyrian. ‘Jaehaerys.’ She said determined, ‘Let my son be remembered as the fondly as his namesakes.’”_

Jaehaerys raised his hands in front of his face and stared at them. _With all the blood these hands have shed – and are likely to continue shedding – Mother, I don’t think I’ll ever be thought of as ‘The Good’._ He thought solemnly. His hands clenched into fists as he exhaled. _But I’ll try to make you proud._

He looked around the Throne Room as the morning sun flooded through the giant windows of the Great Hall, he smiled to himself as he drew his sword and placed it across his lap. Of all the weapons he’d taken after the dust of war had settled and the blood of the fallen began to congeal in pools of mud, this was one of the few he had brought with him when he felt himself ready to go home. _“The greatest of Westeros’ fabled blades”_ his father had told him once _“Lost in the wars long passed.”_

 _No_ , he thought to himself. _Not lost. Just waiting for someone of worth to earn her. And all I had to do was kill a foal that thought himself a stallion._ The thought made him laugh, and as the echo of it died, the great oak doors of the Hall were pushed open. He couldn’t restrain the smirk that gleamed behind his growing beard revealing teeth as white as the armor the Kingsguard that stood at either side of the King and his family as they entered the Throne Room.

 _Six,_ He counted, _Still yet to find a seventh to replace Ser Darry._ His smirk grew at the gasp he heard form Cercei Lannister as she looked at him sat there in front of the Throne’s steps with live steel bared across his legs. He stood then as three of the six rush him and readied himself, his eyes wide and his lips grinning in the anticipation of the clash to come. _Uncle Benjen, Oswell and The Kingslayer,_ He felt the blood rush to his ears and he revelled in the feeling, but he caught himself remembering why he was home. He inhaled and exhaled as he lifted the blade in his right hand before driving it home into the black iron and ruby encrusted scabbard he had removed it from. As the three knights stood before him, golden swords pointed and at the ready, he raised his hands in surrender and stared at Ser Benjen. Stark grey eyes meeting each other for the first time in almost a decade as Benjen’s gaze widened with realisation. Jaehaerys smiled a full toothy smile, let the fingers of his right-hand wave, and chuckled.

“Hello Uncle.”

 

The Wolf in The South I

 

 _Seventeen years I’ve been away from the North. Seventeen years since I’ve tasted the cool air and ridden with Ned through the Wolfswood_ , He thought to himself as he left his chambers in the White Sword Tower. His white armour gleamed in the morning sun that managed to enter through the corridors of the Red Keep as he made his way towards the King’s chambers to relieve Ser Arthur of his watch and allow him to wash before court. The presence of Ser Barristan on the other side of the right side of the double doors hinted that the Queen was inside. Most likely ranting over what Rhaenys had hinted at during evening meal the night before.

A smile played at his lips thinking of that one of many incidents between the Queen and the Queen to be and their shooting of subtle barbs and insults. _For all the negatives of being a guard of this family, at least I don’t have to pay for entertainment_. He nodded to Arthur who returned the greeting with a hand to his shoulder as he walked passed him.

“Benjen,” Ser Barristan greeted, a small smile warm on his aged features.

“How long do you think they’ll stay at it?” Benjen asked bringing his hand up to rub the growing beard around his mouth as he looked from the door to Barristan and back again.

“I’d wager Her Grace, realising the King doesn’t care in a minute or two,” The older man laughed lightly as he rolled his shoulders before letting his hands rest on the pommel of his blade.

Before Benjen could word his reply the doors to the King’s chamber were pulled open and Cersei Lannister stepped out, her golden hair hung in loose curls down her shoulders and back. She looked from Barristan to Benjen, both men trying – Benjen failing – to hide the small smiles on their faces. Cersei’s face reddened slightly as her forest green eyes narrowed at Benjen, the rubies and emeralds of her crown glistened in the light as she opened her mouth as though to curse him. But as though thinking again, she closed it and as lady-like as the lioness of The Rock could manage she _hmphed_ and walked away. Benjen offered a bemused smile to Barristan as he watched Barristan silently sigh and followed the Queen.

“Forgive my wife, Ser Benjen.” Benjen heard Rhaegar’s smooth alto voice from behind him. “She seems as much a dragon as a lion this morning.” The King smiled warmly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. Like it rarely did since Lya’s boy had died. One of the few things that made the King somewhat likeable in Benjen’s eyes, his love for the boy. Him and Lya both. _It pains him even now. The same as it does me_ , He thought and bowed his head to his Liege.

“Nothing to forgive, Your Grace,” Benjen said allowing the honorific to roll off his tongue, used to speaking to the King in private now, after almost making attempt at his life all those years ago. “The Princess was rather...,” He paused a moment trying to find the right word, “...honest in her view of Her Grace the Queen.”

Rhaegar laughed then, short and quiet, but it was one of the real ones that seemed so far and in between as the years passed.

The rest of the walk to the Great hall was silent, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence as it had been at the start of Benjen’s seventeen years in King’s Landing. This was just a period of quiet, neither man speaking as Benjen allowed the King to truly don the mantle, as he did every morning.

Benjen fell in behind the King, resuming his role as a white shadow as they drew close to the large chamber hallway before the bronze and oak wood doors of the Great Hall. As the back of the crowd that had gathered turned to see the King approach, a murmur rose as the lords, ladies and courtiers of the King’s Court turned and parted to allow the King to the front. Rhaegar walked through the crowd, acknowledging the odd curtsey and bow with a nod of the head and a kingly smile. Benjen let his eyes scan through the crowd spying many of the men and women present most days court is held. Lord Baelish’s eyes met his for moment before the man moved out of view behind a group of Reachmen that stood around their lord, Mace. Benjen let the scene of the man’s round face red and flustered when he learned the King had already betrothed the Silver Prince to his sister, replay in his mind. The King’s current Master of Coin had brought his sons, Loras and Garlan, along with his daughter the Lady Margaery to King’s Landing, some weeks past, in hopes of securing a marriage to the Crown. Benjen still found it amusing to watch the plump lord’s face fall anytime he looked upon Rhaenys and Aegon together.

As they reached the front of the crowd and the doors of the Hall, the Queen and her children were to the King’s right and Aegon and Rhaenys to his left. Aerion, Visenya and Bael each shared in their parent’s beauty and comely features. Aerion had his mother’s emerald eyes and golden locks but his face was Rhaegar’s Valyrian elegance. Bael the youngest, a boy still, had his father’s silver-gold hair that hung loosely past the tips of his ears in curls. Visenya – the Queen’s sole daughter – was the jewel of court, even at four and ten her beauty in court was only matched by the Queen herself and the Lady Margaery Tyrell.

Curtsies and bows were followed an echo of, “Father,” as Rhaegar took Cersei’s arm in his own and gestured to the two guardsmen before the doors to do their duty.

The doors of the Great Hall had opened for the King and his family as they did every day since Rhaegar had knighted him and inducted him into The Kingsguard. He knew the honour that was being given to him was no small thing, but he also knew in part that it wasn’t because of anything he had done. It was all for Lyanna. Lya who should have told Father that she hadn’t wanted to marry Robert. Lya who should have been Queen instead of the spiteful cunt that was Cersei Lannister. Lya who would have been as fierce a mother as she was a young girl curious of the world in which she lived. Lya who would have made sure her son stayed with them at the Red Keep, or would have said they ride the King’s Road to Winterfell instead of letting a boy no older than seven namedays take a ship to White Harbour alone with no more than a sole Kingsguard and a handful of King’s Men.

 _Forgive me sister_ , he prayed silently, as he had done most days since the boy had disappeared. His heart ached at the memory of the letter Ned had written, asking when the King would be sending the boy to ward, three weeks after those in King’s Landing had expected word to be sent of the Prince’s arrival in the North. The King and the heir had been distraught, even young Rhaenys – who always held a disliking for her Northern half-brother because of what the boy represented to her mother – was concerned. The wreckage they’d discovered on the Fingers of the Vale left little hope that any would have survived whatever happened. Yet the King had sent men to Essos to search, Ned had even sent his own men too. But all returned either empty handed or with a false prince that barely matched the description they had been given. And the King was advised to assume the worst.

It had been ten years since and the Keep still felt hollow in the years since Jaehaerys’ supposed death. He was fond of the boy. He reminded Benjen of his brother and sister, young Jaehaerys was always full of the same Wolf’s Blood that seemed so watered down in him and Ned. So full of life but still lacked the joy that they seemed to show.

 _He was really Rhaegar’s son at least, a sharp-minded boy with good intentions but that temper was all you Lya_ , He let the smile dace across his features before returning them to the unreadable mask of the Black Wolf as the Great Hall’s doors opened fully. As the King and his remaining family entered alongside his White brothers, and the court filed in behind them, The Queen gasped and shot a finger to point at the throne. Immediately all eyes were on the figure sat back against the dais of the throne with a sword bare and flat in his lap.

 _Live steel_ , Benjen thought to himself and was already running forward as he drew his gold blade in his hand. He was flanked on either side by Ser Jaime and Ser Oswell. The final three of them remaining by the Royal family, swords drawn, watching. As Benjen closed the distance he watched as the stranger – clothed head to toe in black – got into his stance and raised his dark sword as if he had been waiting just for this moment. Benjen felt himself hesitate as the tall man flexed his free arm and hand before driving his blade into its scabbard. As Benjen stood before the stranger, his sword point out he allowed himself to look the man over. The black short sleeved tunic he wore seemed a tailored fit though was taunt around his chest and arms, which apart from its red stitching was plain, as were his black breeches and the black riding boots on his feet. He was tall, this stranger, taller even than the King or the Crown Prince and he was broad and muscled.

 _A warrior_ , He thought to himself as he looked at the few scars visible along his harms _. Or an assassin. But why surrender?_ The logic on sneaking into the Red Keep only to surrender without so much as a swing of a sword lost on Benjen.

He scanned his face, searching to see if he could recognise him. The close beard on his face full and dark, though marred by the thin, pale scar that went straight down from below his eye to halfway down his right cheek. As his eyes met the stranger’s the man smirked, and it was oddly familiar. That sense of familiarity cemented when Benjen stared into his eyes, eyes a grey that seemed to shift from almost black to steel as he watched them. Lya’s eyes.

“By the gods” he heard himself whisper as Ser Jaime and Ser Oswell stood to his sides their own swords pointed forward. It was then the man’s smirk turned into a smile.

“Hello uncle,” he said.

That voice, not unlike the voice he’d heard all those years ago, before his nephew had left for the North on a ship that would never make it. The same nephew that would come running when Aegon, the Prince had teased the dark ringlets of hair that fell almost to his shoulders. The same nephew that had died short of his ninth nameday. Only that nephew stood before him, no longer a boy that would call out to a mother that could not answer when he woke in the night surrounded by darkness. That nephew now a man grown.

 

The First Son I

 

“Get up, idiot.” Rhaenys snapped playfully, throwing a pillow at her betrothed, “We’re going to be late to court.” Aegon groaned as one of the feathered pillows of his bed hit the side of his face and rolled onto his back. “Egg seriously, get up. Father’s already warned us about being late to Court again.”

He smiled then and watched her dress, the orange slip she wore a small ode to their mother and her House. He loved his sister as both a brother and husband to be should, but he couldn’t help the amusement in his deep violet eyes as he watched her hurriedly braid strands of her hair like a little girl worried of being caught with her fingers in a pie.

Even now, at three and twenty Rhaenys still coveted their father’s approval. Aegon, however, not so much. It’s not that their Lord Father wasn’t a good man, he was a just King, and had been a loving father too – once. It was just that Aegon saw his father for what he was, a man. A brilliant scholar, wise beyond his years, one of the greatest swordsmen Aegon had ever seen, and a gentle and strong King. But he was a man nonetheless, and as such, he was flawed.

 _Flawed enough to chase a woman not his wife_ , thought Aegon indifferently. _And indirectly cause the death of thousands. All for what? Prophesy?_ Aegon sighed sitting up and getting out from under his bed covers. He loved his family, and he would ensure they would all prosper and expand along with the realm when he became King. Even Aerion the oldest of his half-brothers – for all his arrogance and childishness – held a place in the Crowned Prince’s heart. _No,_ he thought grimly, _not the oldest._ He couldn’t help the slump in his shoulders or the heaviness in his heart at the thought of those he grieved, even now so many years after their passing, it hurt him still. You _’ve lost so many already Aegon, and you’re yet to sit the Iron Throne, boy._ A voice not unlike his Father’s echoed in his mind as he laced the cuffs of a black long-sleeved tunic with a crowned dragon embroidered over his heart. _I fear the day I let you take that chair and wear the crown atop your brow. O how the realm will bleed._ He’d been clenching the muscles in his jaw and hands for what felt like hours, deep in thought when a hand squeezed his shoulder gently.

“I’ve been calling your name the past five minutes, Egg.” She said gently as she cupped his cheek, concern evident on her features, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing Rhae, truly, I was just thinking of ‘Senya, she’s a girl still and father would have me marry her after I do you.” He saw the look in her eyes and knew she saw through him. Saw that as much as he wanted her to think otherwise, he still mourned those long lost to them as if they hadn’t died a decade ago. But she didn’t push him to answer truthfully and he loved her for that.

“She’ll be fine Egg, you’ll treat her as well as you have me,” the smile she offered was bright and he lifted some until that voice that was both his father’s and not, laughed quietly. _Aye, you’ll bed many a servant and dishonour her just the same._ Blocking out that voice, he flashed Rhaenys a smile and put on the black doublet and breeches he’d set on the chair in his bedchambers. He buckled the clasps on his black boots before turning again to his sister. She was beautiful his sister-wife to be. Her hair hung free in rich dark curls, that framed her heart-shaped face. She had their mother’s lips and colouring but the shape and arch of her dark eyebrow was something Rhaegar had given her. She was shorter than Aegon by a hand but she was well endowed with full breast and shapely hips.

“Shall we grace the court with your beauty, sweet-sister?” Aegon asked her with a teasing smile on his lips as he offered her his arm.

Rhaenys laughed then, a gentle sound, and gave her brother a mock curtsy before linking her arm in his, “We shall, Your Grace.”

As they walked through the halls Ser Jaime in his white enamel plate walked behind them. His false left hand glowing in the rays of morning sun. Unlike his uncle, Viserys, Aegon bore the knight no ill-will for the deeds of his past. He understood the conflict that must have torn him apart, _Kill a madman or go collect your father’s head._ Aegon thought to himself as he gave a customary nod towards the lords and ladies of the court as he made his way to the door of the Great Hall with Rhaenys on his arm. _My sword would find that king’s heart before the command had finished._

Aegon and his sister stood across form their half siblings and step-mother as his Lord Father the King made his way to join them at the Great Hall. As his siblings all bowed and curtsied, echoing their greeting. Aegon watched as his father took the Queen’s arm in his own and commanded the doors open. He stepped in behind his father and as the procession began he heard the Queen gasp from in front of him. Within seconds three of the Kingsgaurd had placed themselves in front of the King and his family as the other three rushed a man stood in black from head to toe.

Aegon watched as Ser Benjen walked towards them, Ser Jaime and Ser Oswell holding the man between them.

“He wishes to present himself before the court Your Grace,” Benjen relayed, a slight frown on his face as he looked from the King to the male in black. His head was down and his hair hung in dark curls in front of his face, hiding his features, but he was tall. Taller than both Ser Jaime and Oswell and from the looks of it, he was taller than Aegon too. _Well-muscled and blooded too,_ Aegon noted mentally.

His father paused for a moment and watched the man with a weighing gaze before nodding and walking towards the Iron Throne. As Rhaegar ascended the throne, Aegon sat on the steps half-way up its base as he observed the two Kingsguard release the man dressed in fine black and boots as dark as his hair. The man stood to his full height then, raising his head and standing broad and straight for all the court to see. His face was long and solemn, with a short, full beard. Aegon felt himself drawn to look at the man’s eyes, but he could only make out that they were dark.

The six Kingsguard had taken up their positions on either side of the Iron Throne as the King nodded towards Jon Connington, his Hand. The red-haired lord walked onto the dais of the throne before speaking.

“You stand in the presence of His Grace, Rhaegar of House Targaryen, First of-“ the noblemen and women of the court gasped as the man interrupted the Hand with a raised palm.

“The First of His Name, King of the Andals, The Rhoynar and The First Men. Lord of The Seven Kingdoms and Protector of The Realm.” The well-built male rushed through the honorifics, annoyance hard in his voice. “I do believe that I know my Father’s titles, Lord Connington. I appreciate the effort though. I came so I would present myself before the King and my family, not be presented to.”

Aegon’s eye’s narrowed as he stood from where he sat on the steps of the Iron Throne, “And which family is this that you would claim _my_ Father as your own. I know not of a bastard brother that my Lord Father has hidden away.” His blood was hot in his ears as he descended the steps, after all, brothers were a touchy subject. “You said you came to present yourself, do so. Now.” His hands clenched into fists as the pale skin of his knuckles was tight and white.

 Aegon stared at him as the man’s lips curled into a smirk. He watched it widen as the Lord of Griffin’s Roost cleared his throat and called out, “Who stands before His Grace, the King.”

It was only when Aegon’s violet eyes met the man’s steel grey that realisation struck. _Those eyes. It can’t be._ Aegon felt his jaw slacken as the man replied.

“Jaehaerys,” His voice carried, loud and clear, even as the gasps and whispers of those in attendance grew in volume, he continued. “Jaehaerys Targaryen. Trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. A son of the Iron Throne, home.”

The world around him spun, “You lie…” he said more to himself than the man that claimed his brotherhood. “We thought you dead. You’ve been dead more than ten years. This is a lie,” Aegon stood before him now eyes wide in disbelief. The man shook the hair from his face before putting a hand on Aegon’s shoulder.

“I was only teasing, Jae. Don’t tell Father, please.” Once the man said that Aegon knew there was no lie. The memory of an incident only he and Jaehaerys were present for. He was seven namedays old and Jae had just turned six. His younger brother – even though their father had always told him he was – had asked Aegon if he really was a prince, or if he was just a bastard like he had heard their Step-Mother say when thought she was alone with Ser Jaime. At the time Aegon had only heard adults say that word about his brother and he didn’t truly grasp what it meant, but Jae did. He didn’t know how, but Jaehaerys knew. And when he told Jae he was a bastard, he hadn’t expected his brother to cry. He’d tried desperately to stop Jaehaerys’ tears then, even promised all Aegon’s sweet cakes for the rest of the week. When that didn’t work, Aegon had hugged his brother tightly begging him not to tell their father.

“Jaehaerys?” Aegon asked aloud, “How?”

It was then that the King rose from atop the Iron Throne and called for the Lords and Ladies to leave the Great Hall until he called them all back to court. As the crowd began to shift and move, Jaehaerys answered, with a small smirk that Aegon never thought he’d see again in this life.

“Fire and blood, Brother. Fire and blood.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you think this is good, don't expect regular updates. Hopefully I can manage a chapter a week, or four days.


	2. A Second Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> News

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any bold text is the translation of any High Valyrian being spoken.

The Master of Coin I

The doors to the Great Hall shut behind Lord Mace Tyrell and the rest of the court before the hallway that led to it erupted into a buzz of whispers and gossip.

“Where is my daughter?” Mace asked looking about the group of Reachmen that had gathered around him. He saw Margaery then, talking with his mother. They were on their own stood beneath a great portrait of Aegon I and his sister-wives.

“What do you make of this then Lord Mace?” Ser Aerys Oakheart looked to his Lord Paramount questioningly with a raised eyebrow. He shook the ringlets of sand-brown hair from his eyes as he smirked. The golden oak tree of House Oakheart emblazoned on his green tunic above his heart. “What make you of this Dark Son, that presents himself a Prince before the court?” Before the chubby lord could answer his bannerman, Lord Randyll replied.

“The boy’s a base-born bastard. The product of our King’s disappearance with the Stark girl during the rebellion.” The lord’s stern face marked only by slight frown lines seemed to grow harder then as he continued, the crimson hunter of House Tarly bright against the Kelly green of his collared doublet. “But he seems as much a warrior as the King or the Black Stag was during the war.” Mace knew the subject of sons was not a topic the lord wasn’t fond of, having all but disowned his heir in favour of the second born, but he thought corrected Lord Tarly. Lest he misspeak in the Prince’s presence. But again, before he could speak, another voice preceded his own.

“He’s no bastard my lord. His Grace, the King married the boy’s mother on the Ilse of Faces in the presence of a septon. In the eyes of all the gods he’s trueborn.” Mace’s mother wore a rich green silk gown, embroidered with golden roses across the bosom with a golden necklace with the golden rose of Tyrell hanging as it’s pendant. Lady Olenna Tyrell was an elderly woman, but she had an air about her that seemed to demand attention. All the lords that stood around the Master of Coin bowed their heads in respect to the matriarch of the Tyrell house. The presence of Lady Margaery on her arm didn’t fail draw the eye of the other groups of lords and ladies that had gathered to gossip. Of all his children Margaery was his pride and glory.

A girl with both a sharp mind, long chestnut brown hair, Tyrell hazel eyes and a smile that would make even the boldest knight falter. The sky-blue gown she wore was covered in white roses and the azure shawl she wore about her shoulders. To say she was possibly the most beautiful of the ladies at court would not have been too overreaching. _As beautiful as any princess should be_ , Mace thought bitterly. _Curse that royal fool for seeing Margaery less than she is._ The King had rejected his proposal to have Margaery wed the Prince Aegon. _“Margaery is a fine lady, my lord,”_ Rhaegar had said politely, _“But Aegon is not meant for her.” How dare he imply my daughter not worthy of a crown all her own._ Mace was brought from his thoughts when his mother hooked her arm in his and promptly walked himself and Margaery out of the hallway and towards a small parlour room.

“What do you know?” Her question made his brow furrow as he looked at her completely lost. He saw her fingers twitch and he almost thought that she’d flick his ears, like she had done many times when he was a boy and didn’t know something he should.

“The _Prince_ , Mace. The dark haired one.” She asked, a slight irritation in her voice, “What do you know about him?”

“He was headed to ward with Lord Stark ten or so years ago, until something happened to his ship.” Mace tried to pick his brain for anything else he had heard since he assumed to office of Master of Coin. “The Starks and the King sent men to all the ports of Essos when they learned of his disappearance but found no trace and believe him dead. He was also born in Dorne.” He felt his chest swell until his mother kissed her teeth.

“Half the Realm knows that, my dear. Give me anything new.” Her tone was almost sarcastic but her face held all the seriousness that Mace had grown up with. “Is there nothing anyone has heard or speculated? Surely someone encountered him before he showed up in the Great Hall.” Mace looked at his mother then wondering if she truly thought him incompetent.

“No one even knew the boy was alive until he _literally_ presented himself before the King, Mother,” He was at a loss and could feel the heat rise to his cheeks in embarrassment.

“Why are you both so interested in this new Prince anyway?” Margaery asked quietly, the sky-blue gown she wore creased slightly as she leaned forward in the chair she was sitting in. She was by far his most intelligent child with the exclusion of Willas and Mace could see that she clearly knew the answer to the question she was asking, of course, but as courtesy demanded she asked anyway.

“Oh, come now child, you’re smarter that. When the King had rejected our offer of your hand to the Crowned Prince, we had been insulted yes, but had no issue with you wedding Aerion as a consolation. With the arrival of the dark prince however, why settle for a third son when a second is also free of duty and a King’s want for prophesy? You and your siblings have been raised on the best of everything, the best tutors and teachers, the best foods and drink, the best silks and leathers, all to give House Tyrell the greatest chance to continue “growing strong,” my dear. If the kingdoms were still seven, we would have seen you marry a prince of The Rock or a Prince of Winter, but we must make due with dragon less Dragons. Your father, for all his faults has promised you would be a princess, and Princess you will be my dear.” The Queen of Thorns said with a wry smile as she picked a sweet cake from the tray a servant had just brought in, before looking to her son. Mace nodded in agreement before looking back to his daughter, her warm pools of chocolate brown meeting his own before he stroked the goatee about his lips and cheeks, a smile evident on his plump but comely face.

“A princess you shall be.”

 

The Silver King I

 

“My son,” Rhaegar said slowly as he stood before the strong young man that claimed to be his own, his voice thick with emotion as he remembered the past. He remembered finding Lyanna, his Knight of The Laughing Tree as she stripped herself of armour and mail hurriedly. He remembered how the buckled strap to the helmet she wore in the joust, had locked and she couldn’t quite unlatch it. His father had commanded him to bring the nameless knight to heel or bring his head, “ _Whichever comes easier. Just be quick with it,”_ the old mad King had said. Rhaegar did as any heir and son would do; he took his sword and with a heavy heart went to find the knight. His surprise at finding the knight had only been equalled upon his realisation that it was no knight, only a young lady dressed in random armour. He had helped her remove the helm, her long, dark hair fell down the centre of her back in a thick Northern braid. He’d seen many a beautiful maid, a multitude of comely faces. But Lyanna, Lyanna was all that and more. Her beauty was as wild as the lands her House hailed from, even from just how she stood there and scowled at him once she had realised just who had helped her, to the slight crease in her brow all of her was beautiful. _It was her eyes,_ Rhaegar thought to himself then. _Those eyes_. Her eyes were a grey whose shade seemed to shift and change with her mood if not the winds. As they spent hours beneath that oak tree laughing and talking, he couldn’t move his gaze from those pools of molten steel.

Looking at the man again, Rhaegar was filled with certainty. “You always had your mother’s eyes.” He smiled then, a sad one, but one that reached his eyes without being forced to. He hugged his son then, and looked at him from arms-length. “I sent you North a decade ago. And we were all distraught when we learned what had happened.”

“We’re you?” Jaehaerys looked from his father to his older half siblings, ignoring the Queen and her children. “I was a slave for three of those years, Father. Three years and not even the rumour that a prince was lost. No word of a father searching for his son.”

It was then Rhaenys spoke, “Don’t be stupid. If you truly believe that Father didn’t send near a hundred men – trackers and bounty hunters alike – to find you before being advised that you were lost to us two years after the searches began, then you truly are as petulant as I remember.” The frown on Jaehaerys’ face deepened as he looked down at his older half-sister, who stared back at him defiantly, hands on hips.

“You two never did get along,” Aegon said with a small smile, seeing his family whole again for the first time in ten years. “We truly did look for you, Jae. Don’t tell me you’ve returned from the dead only to say you hate us all.” Aegon’s smile was broad but Rhaegar could see the fear in how his oldest son’s throat bobbed.

Jaehaerys eyes clouded then, as though remembering darker times before he sighed and shook his head. “I tried. Truly. For so long I tried to hate you,” He looked at them all then, “Even when I felt rod and cane against the skin of my back, I tried over and over to hate you all, but I couldn’t.” He looked like he had more to say but thought against it.

“You’re home now.” Rhaegar said firmly, “You are with us now, and we stand a completed family again.” It was only then that he turned to his wife and noticed the scowl on her face. As Jaehaerys walked towards her, Aerion, Visenya and Bael.

“Step-Mother,” He said firmly with a curt nod. He stepped before Aerion and looked him over, “I’d see to test your skill in the yard, Brother.” Turning to Visenya before his brother could respond. Jaehaerys allowed himself to smile as he knelt before his younger sister. “You’re more beautiful than I remember,” he said with feigned confusion, “Are you sure you’re _my_ sister?”

Rhaegar couldn’t help the broad smile that found his lips when Visenya wrapped her arms around her brother’s neck. He knew he had grown distant with his children after Jaehaerys had disappeared, but Visenya had been the only of his children that still tried to get stories about their lost brother from him. _I haven’t been the best father,_ Rhaegar thought silently, scolding himself. _But I will at the least try to be now._ He watched as Jaehaerys turned to Bael, the youngest of all Rhaegar’s offspring. Being only nine, Bael had never seen his older brother, nor truly heard memories of him.

“And who’s this? This can’t be my brother, Bael!” Jaehaerys exclaimed, “My brother is a young babe still and this be a great and mighty warrior!” Bael laughed then his cheeks tainted red, as he looked at the silly man who was his brother. “Warriors don’t laugh, Bael,” Jaehaerys said his voice stern and gruff. “Give me your best warriors face, Brother.” There were smiles on all their faces as they watched young Bael scrunch up his face and produce a small growling sound that one would expect from one of the pups in the Red Keep’s kennels.

Jaehaerys stood and turned to his father and his older siblings. “There’s so much I need to tell you, Father. So much I need to show you all. Yet that can wait.” He sighed as he looked from Rhaegar to Aegon, before unsheathing the longsword by his side. “This,” He looked at the blade’s dark ripples as he held it in the air. It was magnificent. “This is Blackfyre, Father.” Rhaegar felt his eyes widen and his jaw slacken.

It was beautiful, the Valyrian steel blade black and grew swirls and ripples. The rain guard had a circular ruby on each side with the cross guard, black steel with each side wrought into the shape of a dragon’s head with rubied eyes. The grip seemed just slightly more than one hand but less than a hand-and-a-half. The pommel was also a black steel dragon head, much like the two on each cross guard. But was larger with obsidian eyes. Rhaegar had never seen a weapon look so elegant. _It’s been lost for over a century, and still looks freshly forged._ “How?” The question was simple but came out sounding eager and impatient.

“I was told I had earned it,” Jaehaerys said simply with a shrug.

One of Rhaegar’s silver brows rose as he looked from the blade to his son. His mind wondered just what kind of man Jaehaerys had become over the course of the past decade. The speculation he felt increased as his son sheathed the blade before continuing.

“If we could speak in private, Father. There are things you must know.” Jaehaerys looked at Aegon and Rhaenys, “Just the four of us.” Before Rhaegar could respond, the Queen stepped towards the darker prince her eyes narrowed with venom on her lips.

“You overstep your station, Bastard! You would exclude the King’s own heirs, as though you are more than you are. Be careful, boy.” Cersei’s voice was shrill and loud as Rhaenys smirked knowing the golden bitch had crossed a line her Lord Father would not permit. Rhaegar’s voice was cold and harsh then as he fought for control of his temper.

“Leave us,” was his response as though the Queen was a common servant girl. Jaehaerys openly laughed and the Queen’s face went white with realisation of what she had just said and in whose presence, she had spoken those words. The realm knew of Rhaegar’s intolerance of those that question the legitimacy of his second son.

“My love surely Aerion is old enough to take part in this discussion.” She all but pleaded, her eyes begging the King where her mouth would not speak the petitions that her pride forced silent. “It would give him the chance to know get to know this lost brother.”

“I thought I was the bastard brother? Or does the intelligence you feign lack consistency, Step-Mother?” Jaehaerys spoke with amusement in his storm grey eyes and smirk playing at his lips that only widened when the Queen turned to send him a warning scowl.  

“Don’t speak to my mother like that. You are home now, in the presence of your betters. but that doesn’t mean you can act the barbarian you were when you lived among filth and savages wherever that was. Leave us, Brother. A royal conversation is no place for a bastard, Royal or otherwise.” Rhaegar’s eyes bulged as all turned to Aerion then. Aegon just sighed and shook his head as the King reeled on his third son, the sound of the slap echoing through the space of the Great Hall. As Aerion stumbled to the ground Rhaegar clenched his hand into a fist but caught himself before he throttled the spoiled prince. Tears welled in his son’s eyes as he held his reddening cheek.

“Leave us!” He commanded, his violet eyes cold stones on his ‘King’s Face’. “I will not repeat myself.”

As Cersei took Bael by the hand, she narrowed her eyes at Rhaenys who was clearly struggling to hold back her joy at the Queen’s dismissal. She grumbled a “Get up and do not cry” as she stormed towards the exit. Aerion getting up and scowling at his elder siblings and father before hurrying after his mother and brother. Visenya smiled sheepishly at Rhaegar and Jaehaerys before curtsying and following.

Rhaegar sighed and looked towards the closing doors of the Great Hall, evening out the crown of rubies and black steel atop his brow, before leading his three remaining children into a side room. He allowed himself to sit at the head of a table and focus on his son. Jaehaerys was taller than most men, thick arms and broad chest. The flat of his tunic marred only by the slight hints of strong abdominal muscles. _A warrior,_ Rhaegar thought proudly.

“I’ve been to Old Valyria.”

Rhaegar felt his eyes go wide as his son explained the story of how he’d taken some time to himself after the first half of his service in the Golden Company to travel to the roots of House Targaryen. His surprise furthered as the dark-haired youth recanted exactly what he saw. And more importantly _who_ he encountered.

“I was fifteen when I took a leave of absence from my service in the Golden company to follow a feeling. We had just finished a small war against the Dothraki that were assaulting Astapor because the fat neb that ran it had stopped paying tribute. After we handled the Dothraki my Commander, Harry Strickland, who had taken me under his wing – a sort of squireship so to speak – gave me permission to follow the pull. I took a small fishing barge and sailed south from Slaver’s Bay into the Smoking Sea. I managed to leave with most of my boat intact, but I was running low on supplies by the time I reached the southern-most island.

“You should have seen it Father, I’d expected fields of black ash and a wasteland barren and without life. But the island was coated in a blanket of green. When I left my boat, I found myself drawn towards the place, everything was calling me, my mind was screaming at me to go further and further inland. By the time I had reached the first hill I saw a small fortress – half destroyed – made entirely of smooth black stone. Against my better judgement I entered through the half-melted steel doors and found myself going down the stairwell, until I could have sworn I was dozens of feet into the earth of the island. There I found a single great weirwood door, by now the pulling feeling was more intense, as if I was being forced towards the door. I managed to force it open the door –. “

It was then Ser Jaime stood in the doorway of the large office that was adjacent to the Throne Room, the white mail of his Kingsguard armour seemed alive as his chest heaved. Catching his breath he looked to Rhaegar his eyes wide.

“Your Grace, come quickly, there’s an incident in the court yard.” Immediately the four Royals followed the knight out of the Great Hall, through the halls of the Red Keep and to the opened double doors that led to the court yard. It was filled with shouting men and screaming women as the lords and ladies tried to escape the court yards centre. It was then Rhaegar saw them, a group of twelve – six males, six females – all of them tall and strongly built, much like his own son, stood in a circle formation facing the five other Kingsguard and a score of guards that formed a larger circle about them.

All of the men and women wore dark grey scale like mail beneath the various tunics, shirts and breeches, like the armour the Conqueror donned for battle. They were all tall – the shortest of the women only slightly shorter than the guardsmen surrounding them – with pale silver hair and eyes that from what Rhaegar could see ranged from shades of amethyst purple to deep azure blue. _Gods what is this?_ The King thought he was losing his mind. Every one of the twelve held a sword of dark rippling steel in their hands and it was only when the tallest man – a beast that was at least taller than The Hound – started shouting in High Valyrian that Rhaegar finally realised what was happening.

“ **Come, you fucking curs. Show us of the Old Blood, if our ancestors were right to leave this fucking island alone.** ” His voice was hard and deep, his silver-blond hair cut short on the sides and back of his head with the top only slightly longer, a thick white beard covered his jaw. His sword as long as Ser Arthur’s Dawn, and seemed to absorb the light around it into darkness.

“ **Peace, Aedar! All of you stand down** ,” It was then all turned to Jaehaerys as the Prince shouted back in High Valyrian and walked towards the group. “ **This is my home. There is no need to spill blood for lack of reason.** ” Without even the slightest hesitation all twelve sheathed their steel and brought a fist to their hearts.

“ **Forgive us, Archon.** ” The all said in unison with heads bowed in respect. Rhaegar could see the unease in the Kingsguards and the King’s Men guards when Jaehaerys told them to stand down, and all looked to him for certain it was a royal command. When Rhaegar nodded all men put away their steel and stepped back, but kept their hands close to their weapons.

“Jaehaerys,” Rhaegar called, “I would have words in my solar.” He left no room for argument before turning back into the keep and upon telling Jaehaerys tell his people to go back to the ships and wait for him, he headed towards the King’s Solar.

 

Jaehaerys II

Jaehaerys stood outside the doors of the Great Hall waiting with the twelve who were closest to him. He was in the armour that he had claimed when he returned to island of Valyrian mainland after he took the head of the Khal of Khals. It was probably the most decorative piece of armour that he had ever seen and had at one point been the ceremonial armour of House Belaerys, one of the forty Dragonlord Families that resided in Old Valyria before The Doom. He wore a full shirt and pair of breeches forged of valyrian steel scales tainted with hints of cobalt and azure blues. The armour itself was the finest black steel. The placket chest piece was black plate covered by black dragon’s wings that were accented in the same cobalt blue. The shoulder pieces rose in the shape of wings to just past the height of his wings, with pauldrons beneath to protect the upper arm and triceps. The vambrace guard that shielded his elbows were wrought into dragon’s wings with a pair of black plate gauntlets. Its greaves had a guard that rose past his knees to protect his lower quads and his legs.

He turned to the giant that was Aedar and the other Valyrians that stood in less gaudy versions of his own plate armour. “ **Is this too much?** ” He asked in their Mother tongue, gesturing to himself, “ **Surely my battle armour would have been enough?** ” The twelve chuckled then and before Aedar Raentarys spoke.

“ **My father said that, that was an Archon’s armour for occasions such as this, and you Jaehaerys are Archon.** ” He placed an armoured hand on Jaehaerys’ shoulder before turning back to pick up one side of one of the four great chests that contained the books, artefacts, weapons and precious stones that Jaehaerys opted to bring back with him.

“Are you nervous my love?” Haelyra asked him as she placed a hand on his chest, one of the shorter women of the group, a head or so shorter than him, but she was beautiful the same as any of the other Valyrian woman but even more so she was strong-willed and kind hearted, but as fierce a warrior as any of the men he considered brothers of battle. She had taken him to bed while still recovering from the injuries he had taken their final battle with the Dothraki. She spoke the Common Tongue well enough to pass as a Lyseni woman. Most of the twelve did in truth, they just didn’t use it thinking it a lesser language that the Mother Tongue of Valyria.

The giant oak doors of the Great Hall opened as a courtier blew a small trumpet horn. Jaehaerys led the procession of thirteen down the centre of the hall with eight of the Valyrians in pairs carrying the four chests. As Lord Connington called out from the base of the Iron Throne, Jaehaerys came to stand a dozen paces from the dais of the throne, Haelyra stood tall and proud by his side. Jaehaerys had announced to the King and court of the Valyrians that were currently in the Capital and aboard their ships, and gifted the books and artefacts he had found to the royal family to replace those that had been lost to them with his father’s birth at Summerhall, he made sure to keep the chest containing the weapons and other, more personal items shut. Rhaegar stood from his position atop the monstrous chair.

“Behold my own flesh and blood, my son. The same son that we thought was lost to us all those years ago. I lost a boy that day, and thought I would go the rest of my days with one less piece of my heart. But that boy I lost has come back to me a man grown, and a sound man he must be to lead these of true Valyrian descent that follow him. In my eyes there could be no greater gift, than my children about me.” He let his eyes meet Jaehaerys’ own as a broad and brilliant smile upon his features, “All of them. So, let it be heard and known throughout the Realm that I am not a solemn man that would let my son return home without celebration and laurels. Two months of celebrations and revelry, the prices of whores and alehouses halved by my own word. And I send invitation to all the Houses and Knights of the Realm to a Summerhall whose construction is finally complete, to witness and take part in the grandest tourney the realm has ever seen, to end this generous year. All in the honour of my son, Jaehaerys of House Targaryen."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always believed that Valyrian's of Old would have been 6' or taller, and a quite war-like people though civilized I always felt they would be a "Follow strength type of people" which is why they enslaved everyone else and their leaders had dragons. And I struggle to believe that there were literally no survivors of The Doom and that the Islands furthest south of the peninsula would have all been turned to ash. And don't worry full explanations of everything/most things hinted at in this chapter will be given sooner or later if you would just be patient. Feel this chapter is kind of rushed, but I wanted to get it out today because the wait until chapter three will be at least a week long as I work out the logistics of a tourney and the events that happen prior to its commencement. If there are any mistakes let me know, I sorta ditched my betas' proof read :3


	3. Blood of The Ancients.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been sick, and busy so..  
> Anyways enjoy.

Jaehaerys III

 

_“Free me,” the voice said in the darkness, Jaehaerys found himself looking for it, staring into the black, searching, looking for something. “Free me,” the voice said again, barely a whisper as it faded away into the black before Jaehaerys turned to find a single giant eye staring at him. The iris was a pool of molten silver with flecks of blue and purple around the slit that was the pupil._

_“FREE ME,” The voice shouted, deep and echoed as blue and white fire engulfed his body._

Jaehaerys sat up, his chest rising and falling, covered in a cold sweat, as he searched his body for flame. Finding none he slowly relaxed. He searched his chambers for any sign of sunlight before realising the sun had yet to rise. He’d been having the same dream for the past six moons since ending the war against Dothrak and returning to the island – that he had found his Valyrian brothers and sisters – in order to take things back to Westeros. _I should have never opened that door._ He cursed himself and the dreams that were a consequence to his curiosity. He remembered the cause of his dreams and what had been behind the doors with a strange fondness and ire. The vault of the smooth stone fortress had been filled with ancient tomes and housed an armoury of Valyrian steel and black steel weaponry, from arrows and bladed bows, daggers and long knives to great swords, war hammers and axes. Jaehaerys was awed as he walked through the chamber, the walls of the small hall were covered in hieroglyphs and runes in High Valyrian and an ancient tongue Jaehaerys could not recognise. Making his way toward the raised dais at the back of the chamber, the pulling sensation he had experienced since making land fall on the island’s coast grew to sound, quiet whispers and mumblings echoing in his mind.

On the dais were two massive weirwood chests banded in gold and black steel, locked with heavy padlocks. The larger of the two was carved with the same runes and hieroglyphs that were engraved into the walls. Using his sword, he managed to break the lock open. Lifting the top of the chest, he was shocked by what he saw. As he stared at the contents of the chest he heard a voice, old and masculine, whispering the same instructions over and over again. “ _Cut your palm and say the words. Cut your palm and say the words. Cut your palm and say the words.”_ The voice was hoarse and quiet, like the whisper of wind. Almost in a hypnotic state Jaehaerys reached for a Valyrian steel knife that was sat atop a stack of books. Cutting a deep straight down his left palm he began to chant in high Valyrian, repeating the words spoken by the voice as he dripped his blood over the items in the chest. There were nine of them each as large as his own head, one a bright solid bronze, one black as night with swirls and ripples of deep crimson, one a brilliant emerald green, another as gold as the coins he had earned as a sellsword. One was a sharp cobalt blue with blurs of grey, one silver and smoky white, another one a faint purple marred by black spots, a bright orange, and the last a solid brown. Each was coated in interlocking scales as large as Jaehaerys’ fingernails.

 “ **I am of the Old Blood, that of the Dragon Gods. The blood of Urrax and Vhagar, of Balerion and Meraxes, of Caraxes and Syrax. By the blood of my body I honour your legacy, by the strength of my soul I bind your mind to mine. Let the Great Ones of Valyria bear witness to this, as god and man become one in the same. Let the lesser men fear the sweeping shadow as I ride it. Let all burn in the glory of our fire. Let tremble before our eyes. Reveal yourself and honour the pact agreed by your ancestors and mine.** ” His head began to throb as the cut on his hand grew hot, the blood boiling before igniting in a black flame. “ **Reveal yourself** ” Jaehaerys said again, staring at his hand, now engulfed in flame. _“Again.”_ The male voice in his mind whispered, the flame in his hand slowly changing shade and colour, “ **Reveal yourself.** ” It was then the fire in his hand went out, and the azure egg began to glow an ethereal blue. It was the same living blue, that seemed to emanate from Haelyra’s own eyes.

He looked to Haelyra then, her long silver threshes falling around her naked shoulders and back. Her face was a picture of angelic beauty as she slept, only the faintest of creases on her brow and a small pout-like frown on her lips. She looked less the mischievous woman he had come to know through the year or so that Jaehaerys had spent in the company of his Valyrian brothers and sisters. He let his eyes drink well of her then, he didn’t know what they were to each other in truth. All he knew was that her company was wanted and welcomed. She teased him about it often enough, calling him “my love” and occasionally bringing up the subject of marriage just to see his reaction. There was one thing he knew and could swear to all the gods; the sex was good. For both of them. The night before alone he had taken her thrice in several positions and varying degrees of animalistic roughness.

“Did I ride my Dragon well tonight?” She had asked in a breathless whisper before collapsing into the bed beside him. She had. As she did every night they spent together. He remembered the time before she’d let him lay with her. She was hard and tough, as much a vicious warrior as he and a temper as hot as his own, he knew their way, ‘Only strength can breed strength.’ Many men went their lives without the touch of a woman on the island south of Valyria of Old, for they simply ‘lacked the strength required.’

Where some of the taller women preferred the use of spears and shields, Haelyra was as gifted with a long sword as Taemarys or Daemanarr. Jaehaerys still found it confusing when he thought on it. _Why would a people that almost completely refused to interact with the world outside of their island, be preparing for wars?_ He remembered Aedar’s bellowing laugh when he had voiced the thought. “ _Our ancestors enslaved whole nations and turned those who would challenge them to ash. War and battle is our way, ingrained into us by the Old Ones themselves. But of all of us, the need for blood and war runs hottest in the Archons. There was one that survived the doom, one of the forty High Families. The Red Dragon. It is said they conquered the West while Valyria was naught but smoke and ash.”_ They all looked at him when he told them that Aegon, Rhaenys and Visenya were his own ancestors. It was Haelyra that spoke then, with scepticism coating her voice, “ _If you’re the descendant of an Archon family, you’re smaller than I thought you would be.”_ Any time they talked of the shared past of their ancestors she always looked at him with a weighing expression.

It wasn’t until after the Dothraki War that it was clear to Jaehaerys that they finally believed him. _He’d been shocked to walk from his tent the morning after the last battle had ended and the sellsword army had finally rid Essos of every Dothraki male old enough to lift an arakh, to find the twelve Valyrians waiting. As he looked to Aedar and Taemarys, the two oldest men of the group, for any inkling of what was happening, as one, all twelve went down to bended knee, a fist over their hearts as they spoke an ancient Valyrian oath of fealty._

_“ **Let Urrax The Bloody bear witness to our pledge, as we kneel before Jaehaerys of the Family Targaryen. By the war we have fought do we acknowledge he who slays those who would be our enemy. By the blood he has shed in the holiness of battle do we swear our lives to him. We pray before Vhagar The Grim that we would die in service of his strength. Should he fall before us, we beg Meraxes The Vigilant grant us strength to kill those who would end his life and to take our own after the deed is done. In the eyes of Balerion The Unyielding do we swear this, in His eyes do we accept this man’s word as law, in His eyes and the eyes of all the Old Ones do we acknowledge Jaehaerys a son of The Red Dragon, as Archon.** ” Jaehaerys watched as each of them took a blade to their right palm and made an incision. They stood then and one by one, pressed their bloodied hand to his shirtless chest over his heart and stated a simply._

_“ **By our blood and by our oaths, may our own strength add to his own.** ” With each hand Jaehaerys felt heat well beneath his skin, he felt odd, stronger. The heat spread across his chest and shoulders to his neck, his arms, down his back and abdomen to his legs. He had looked around and noticed a small number of sellswords from the Golden Company were watching the ceremony with raised eyebrows and questioning looks at the hearing of the word “Targaryen,”_ he laughed inwardly as his eyes met the back of Haelyra’s sleeping form.

 _I’d told all who cared to ask that my name was Arstan, a bastard of the Stormlands._ He chuckled a note too loud and caused the woman in his bed to stir.

_He looked back to the twelve silver haired warriors before they all nodded his way, heads bowed with the honorific of “ **Archon** ” on their lips as they left him standing there bewildered._

Coming out of the memory Jaehaerys stood from his bed in the Red Keep, donning black breeches and a blue and black tunic. The sun would rise soon, and he needed to train early and release pent up agitation to be relaxed enough to deal with the little lordlings who had yet to stop staring at him in the two weeks since he’d arrived. He turned to the bed once more and let his gaze linger on Haelyra as she rolled onto his side of the bed. He left Blackfyre and its ruby and black iron scabbard leaning against the chest that contained the dragon eggs he had yet to gift to his family.

**~~xxxxxxxLinebreakxxxxxxx~~ **

He stood shirtless in the training yard, sweat across his back and brow as he traded blows with Baedryn Velnalys and Gaegor Malraenos, two of the twelve that were more his friends than personal guard after almost four years of companionship. The two were of an age and height with him, but Gaegor was bigger than him and Baedryn in terms of muscle mass. Jaehaerys dropped his left shoulder just early enough to dodge Baedryn’s downward swing before bringing his left hand from the hilt of his blunted training sword and driving its fist up into the man’s strong jaw causing him to stumble backwards. Using the blade in his right hand he parried the horizontal swing that would have left his ribs bruised and sore for at least a day or two if not more. He dropped to a squat before lunging forward, driving his shoulder into Gaegor’s hard midsection. As they both crashed onto the firm dirt ground Jaehaerys pressed the blunted blade to Gaegor’s neck.

“Dead,” he said before grunting as Baedryn brought his right foot into the muscle under Jaehaerys’ ribs. Rolling with the kick, instead of going against it – as Gaegor had done – and allowing the force to act in full, he let the momentum take him off Gaegor’s winded form, before pushing himself up to stand. He let the grip of the sword rest in both hands, he inhaled and exhaled, letting instinct take over as he entered the stance he used when fighting in one on one situations, he sighed as he watched Baedryn circle him. “Come.” He said finally. As if following an order, Baedryn stepped forward launching a series of attacks; a wide swing that was meant to be deflected, a feint to Jaehaerys’ right before an upward slash that he had to side-step. As Jaehaerys stepped out of Baedryn’s swing he grabbed the outstretched arm and yanked the Valyrian past him. When Baedryn turned around to face Jaehaerys again, he found the point of a blunted sword against his bare chest.

“Dead.” Jaehaerys said smirk on his face as he dropped his blade-arm to his side, “Another round?” He asked as the sound of applause rang out.

 

The King’s Griffin

 

He was sat in his solar in the Tower of The Hand as he looked over documents that required his signature. He looked over a request from the Master of Ships, that asked for more coin to further increase the Royal fleet and recalled the meeting at which he’d first heard the topic. It had been a month or so before Lyanna’s son had chosen to reveal his presence to the court.

The lords of the Small Council had all gathered in their meeting chamber to discuss the state of the Realm. The King had asked the Hand to preside over the meeting in order to allow him to more time in the Red Keep’s library reading ancient tomes on prophecy and the like. The Hand hated that library, it was the only thing that stopped Rhaegar from being one of the greatest kings the Realm had seen in years. _All that fucking reading is what led Rhaegar to that Stark girl,_ he thought from behind the mask he wore to hide his irritation at the arguing lords before him. Mace Tyrell was arguing with Monford Velaryon over the Royal fleet, again. The Master of Coin thinking that a heavier tax on the lords of the eastern shore close to Dragonstone would provide the adequate coin needed to fund the construction of half a dozen more war galleys to the ire of the Master of Ships.

“If an increase of tax is needed to fill the Crown’s coffers to grow the King’s Fleet, why should the lords whose lands are not as bountiful as others bear the brunt of it?” The Master of Ships, said as he eyed the fat Reachman. “Why not let those like you and yours, whose land is famed as the most plentiful of the country lessen the load for the rest of us.” _Damn you, Rhaegar, for leaving me to deal with these lack-wits._

“Any news from across the Narrow Sea, Lord Monford?” Jon Arryn asked, running a strong hand through his grey hair, irritation on his elderly features. “How fares the East?”

“There’s been whispers of a war in the Dothraki Sea, but all that is probably rumours or one sellsword company commissioned by some city or other.” The Lord of The Tides stated with a shrug, the white-gold seahorse broach of his House, shimmering slightly with the movement against the sea-green silk doublet he wore.  The Lord of Griffin’s Roost watched Lord Arryn weigh the younger lord’s word before turning to Lord Varys. The perfumed eunuch sat with an indifferent expression on his face.

“My Little Birds tell me of a war that many in the East call ‘The Cleansing,’ according to my sources, the Free Cities of Essos had decided to cease all tributes to the Dothraki Horselords in their entirety.” The bald man stated matter-of-factly, his smooth voice sending a small shiver down Lord Connington’s spine. “Apparently the Dothraki we herded together under one Khal Drogo who they dubbed the ‘Khal of Khals’. To face this force, the Free Cities pooled their resources and collectively hired several of the sellsword companies, including The Wind Blown, The Long Lances, The Second Sons and The Golden Company. Following a series of small skirmishes, the Dothraki finally faced the sellswords on an open field. Reportedly a youth who had risen through the ranks to command the Golden Company and spearhead the sellsword army killed the Khal’s bloodriders before taking Drogo’s head in single combat. After that the mercenary armies broke the Dothraki over a series of battles, killing them to a man and slaving the women and girl children before castrating every male child and enslaving them.”

The men present had frozen with shock, before Connington broke the silence. “And do you have anything on this man? A name, a title, his appearance? Where is he now?” _I pray he keeps to the East lest he turn his amalgamation of mercenaries on the Realm._

The bald man’s indifferent expression faltered slightly, “All my birds could gather is he was dark of hair and fair of skin, most likely of Westerosi heritage. As far as his location, my sources lost him when he entered the Smoking Sea.” _So even you are not as all-knowing as you would have us think you, Eunuch._

**~~xxxxxxLinebreakxxxxxx~~ **

Jon Connington never liked Lyanna Stark. He didn’t like the freedom of spirit she had shown in the short time he had known her. He didn’t like what she represented to Rhaegar, that Pact of Ice and Fire, or whatever the fuck it was that drove Rhaegar to near madness in his pursuit of the girl. Most of all, he hated, with every fibre of his being that dark hair and those grey eyes that seemed to glow with mischief. Jon had seen the young male stood in the training yard shirtless. He was fighting and laughing with some of the Valyrian men that had made a scene in the courtyard the day he had returned. A guardsman had made a comment on one of the women and she had slammed his head into the dirt, causing the uproar.

To say Jaehaerys was Rhaegar’s son would have been an accurate statement. In many ways he was like his father, tall, and the intelligence in his eyes was also present in Rhaegar’s. Yet, he was Lyanna through and through, even as a child, before his disappearance, he was as unruly as his mother and as rebellious. It was that rebellious nature that set Jon against the boy, it was why Jon had asked the King to summon him to the impromptu Small Council meeting, so they could all gauge him.

“Where have you been, Your Grace?” Jon asked, calling the lad by title tasted bitter in his mouth as he looked as the tall Prince stood at the foot of the council table with his hands clasped behind his back. He watched as the muscles beneath the boy’s dark tunic tensed and relaxed. “You were gone for near a decade, surely you could have come home, or made your existence aware to the crown.”

“Aye, I could have. But what would have been the fun in that, I had things to do and places to go, Lord Connington, I’m sure a busy lord such as you can understand. To answer your question though, I was a slave in Volantis for a time before I joined the Golden Company.” He stated simply with a shrug. “I was there during ‘The Cleansing’ or whatever name those in the East would call it.” That alone brought a string of questions from the lords in attendance, before all silenced when Rhaegar raised his hand to ask a question.

“Is that wear you found Blackfyre?” The silver-haired King asked with raised eyebrows.

“I already told you that I _earned_ it, Father. I didn’t find it. It was given to me. An older man with blue eyes and Valyrian features after the war. He was dying, injured during one of the last few skirmishes that was fought to kill the remaining Dothraki. He said he was the last Blackfyre, his brothers had all died in wars past. I had lived my life in the Company as Arstan Storm, a bastard from the Stormlands,” he paused to think, as if trying to remember a detail. “Then the my Valyrian companions proclaimed me their Archon and revealed who I really was. We talked, the old Blackfyre and I, he was named Aegor, he told me, after Bittersteel. We talked about the blood feud between or families, about how the past few Blackfyres simply wanted to return home. He handed me Blackfyre after it all, saying that it was a sword that was not passed from father to son, but like when Aegor Bittersteel refused to give it to Daemon’s son, it was handed only to the worthy son. One gifted in combat beyond those around him. He told me it belonged in the hands of Aegon’s descendants and no others and would rather see it “In the hands of a fucking Red” than some guttersnipe lowborn.”

Jon narrowed his eyes at that, not liking how Jaehaerys seemed to sympathise with the man he had named a Blackfyre. “Aye it was an ‘earned’ gift. But do, pray tell, how you earned it. And in the eyes of a Black no less.” Contempt dripped from his voice.

“I took the head of the Dothraki Khal that led their army.”

The Red Wolf

Robb was stood in his father’s solar along with his sisters, Bran and his Lady mother. At nine and ten namedays he was a man grown and would have already left for his own keep somewhere in the North had he not been his father’s heir. He watched his lord father as he paced about the solar, his dark hair tied back in its usual style at the back of his neck. Robb turned to his mother a questioning eyebrow raised.

“Ned, love, what has happened?” Catelyn asked, even after nine and ten years of marriage and five children, Catelyn Tully was still a beautiful woman. Her rich auburn hair, that almost all her children had inherited hung in a long Northern braid that she brought forward over her shoulder. “Is it Benjen?” She asked again concerned when Lord Stark did not answer her, lost in thought.

Ned turned to them all then and raised the letter in his hand. “It’s from Ben. It’s about my sister’s son.” His face sank slightly at the mention of his sister. Though he felt a slight pang, Robb was mostly indifferent towards the mention of his relations. He had never met his aunt or his cousin, both having died in the South. His cousin was a prince who was meant to come North and never made it. The day the news reached them was the first and only time he had ever seen his father openly shed tears in the presence of his family. It wasn’t that Ned Stark was a cold man towards his family, it was just that he was of the North and the “North is no place for warm Summer tears” he had told the nine-year-old Robb when he wiped his eyes dry.

  “The boy has been gone for years Ned, surely it is time for these grief-filled letters to end. You need to stop blaming what happened on yourself.” Lady Catelyn said as she stepped forward and placed a hand on her husband’s arm. Only for Lord Stark to hand her the letter. Robb watched his mother read through the parchment before her Tully-blue eyes widened and she looked at her husband. “He lives?” She exclaimed in shock.

Robb was confused, he remembered the year of searching the Essosi coast that his father had commissioned, only to be told that his nephew was long lost to them, either dead or enslaved. Now there was a letter speaking of said nephew being alive and home. Robb watched his father turn back to his desk and pick up another letter, Sansa and Arya both shared a look with him as their father red the letter.

“For near a decade my family has been missing a piece of itself, yet this piece has been returned to it. My son, Jaehaerys, has come home and shown himself alive and well. By Royal Decree, I would have the realm see two months of celebration and end both those two months and this year with a tourney at the rebuilt palace of Summerhall. I do invite the lords of my kingdom to come and witness this, and to honour their return prince. Signed, His Grace Rhaegar Targaryen I.”

It was Sansa who spoke first, the girl now in the early years of womanhood, always wanting to see the South. “Are we going, Father? I would very much like to meet this cousin that so mysteriously vanished and returned.”

Ned looked from Sansa to Robb and then to Arya and Bran, before nodding and meeting his wife’s own eyes. “Aye, Sansa, we will go south. To see this lost wolf of ours.”

“Don’t you mean dragon, Father?” Arya asked with a light chuckle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My take on the whole 'Dragon's Blood' thing with the egg revealing itself to Jaehaerys instead of it hatching and him bonding with a dragon. Is why I feel Targs have struggled with hatching them. In case you all haven't noticed, my Author's Notes are lackadaisical at best, there's so much I could explain but the effort to do so is too much.


	4. Author's Note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> READ and comment because I love your comments. Yes even you Dog.

Hey people.  
This is basically meant to be an Author’s Note that would allow me to just explain a few of the aspects in this story that more than likely won’t be explained as the story progresses.

* _ruffles notes*_ In regards to:

Ages, as of 301 (The start of chapter one):

  * Viserys; 25  
Rhaenys; 21  
Aegon; 19  
Jaehaerys; 18  
Daenerys; 17  
Aerion; 16 (Born in 285 instead of ’86)  
Visenya; 14 (Born ’87 instead of ’89)  
Bael; 9 (Born 291)  
All other of the main 'child' character ages (Robb, Arya, Sansa, Margaery, Robin Arryn etc.) are changed to reflect this or simply go with the show ages if that is easier for you, although Arya is about 13 and Sansa is 15/16 in this.



The Kingsguard:

  * Ser Gerold Hightower; The White Bull.  
Ser Arthur Dayne; Sword of The Morning.  
Ser Oswell Whent; The Black Bat  
Ser Jaime Lannister; The Kingslayer  
Ser Barristan Selmy; The Bold  
Ser Benjen Stark; The White Wolf  
Ser Jonothor Darry; The Ploughman (Died in 290 on the ship, saving Jaehaerys’ life)



The Small Council:

  * Lord Jon Connington; The Hand of the King  
Maester Marwin; Grand Maester  
Ser Gerold Hightower; Lord Commander of The Kingsguard  
Lord Mace Tyrell; The Master of Coin  
Lord Jon Arryn; The Master of Laws  
Lord Monford Velaryon; The Master of Ships  
Varys; The Master of Whispers



The Twelve Valyrians:

  * Taemarys Baeleron; Male, 28, 6’5  
Baedryn Velnalys; Male, 19, 6’2  
Daemanarr Qarys; Male, 23, 6’4  
Gaegor Malraenos; Male, 18, 6’3  
Aedar Raentarys; Male, 32, 7’3  
Maedryn Baedor; Male, 24, 6’3  
Haelyra Caentigar; Female, 19, 5’11  
Naesenya Dolarys; Female, 17, 5’10  
Maenyra Lenothys; Female, 24, 6’0  
Vaeleya Baedor; Female, 21, 5’9  
Saelarys Menaegon; Female, 23, 5’10  
Aurelys Raentarys; Female, 29, 6’2



Post-Doom Valyrian culture: A mix of Spartan/Roman/Amazonian/Nordic/Egyptian histories.

  * Malformed newborns cast into the sea/abandoned to the wilderness.
  * Women and girl children taught Warcraft; swords, spears, archery etc.
  * Men and male children the same.
  * Male children taken from families around 5/6 and educated in intense military camps until 13/14 before being sent into the wilds of the peninsula for 3 months to fend for themselves
  * All are taught the histories of Valyria, including the blood oaths, the Archon histories, the Great Wars of Ghis, The Doom.
  * Follow mostly the war gods of the Valyrian pantheon (Balerion, Urrax, Meraxes, Syrax, Vhagar) and some other gods. I do personally believe the first gods of Valyria were sentient/semi-sentient dragons hence why they are collectively called the Old Ones.
  * Valyrian nobility would have been seen as vessels of the gods etc.
  * Smiths know how to forge Valyrian steel yet lack the materials and the means
  * “The strong survive and the weak perish” mentality as such men fight eachother and their desired women for the right to marry and breed.



Also, every member of the Targaryen royal family has the latent ability for sorcery/dragon dreams/blood magic etc, Jaehaerys more so than his siblings due to First Men blood. **_However,_** this does not mean said magic will be prevalent in the story as it is a **_LEARNED_** trait that has been lost through the generations of ignorance and knowledge lost through deliberate tampering, i.e. The Tragedy at Summerhall (which in this canon was a ploy by the Andals/Faith/Maesters to rid Westeros of both magic and Targaryens).


	5. An Excecutioner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all owe great thanks to Daemon_Baelerys who had a heavy hand in the writing of this chapter. Sorry for the delay, still working on world expansion and development of my notes, as well as blame Daemon, Avery_Fontaine and ScholarOfTheArchive for being influences of HEAVY procrastination. Atleast I got them to update.

Jaehaerys IV  


He had to resist the urge to laugh at the lords’ reactions to his admission of truth. Jaehaerys understood the gravity of what he did when he killed Drogo and began the purge of Essos. He knew that even with as slow as news of events would travel through the East, that news would reach Westeros eventually. He had speculated, while he was returning to the West, that more than likely before he reached home they would have heard of the sellsword army that the combined wealth of the Free Cities had commissioned. He also speculated the news that it was him that led the excursion would have surfaced, but judging from the expression on the faces of the men before him he had guessed wrong. He locked eyes with his father for a moment and felt as though he was being weighed in those indigo eyes. While the other lords were calling him a liar or were firing an array of questions towards him the Hand spoke.

“Quiet,” he called as a fist hit the table in the small council chamber. “We’ll have the truth if you all would keep quiet and let the Prince speak.” He looked at Jaehaerys then, contempt and disbelief evident in his own eye, though he knew better than to blatantly call the Prince a liar in front of the King as Lord Mace and Monford had done. “Well, Your Grace, tell us how you, a boy of what at the time? Six and ten? Killed a man twice your age, who had been killing grown men since he could ride a horse?” All of them nodded eagerly, even Varys the bald seneschal, had stopped feigning disinterest and had an open expression of intrigue across his features.

Jaehaerys looked to his father again, Rhaegar had yet to speak nor change his expression, beyond a slight curiosity. He knew that face, remembered it. “ _A king’s face must betray nothing of his mind, lest you give the wrong impression,”_ He heard his father’s voice, even the man did not speak. He thought back to that day in the great Grass Sea of Dothrak. The memory of it still made the scar beneath his eye itch and the long-gone breaks in his side to burn hot.

_He stood glaring angrily at the Dothraki horde before him. Half a dozen sellsword companies, spearheaded by the Golden Company under his command had been waging a war of annihilation against the dothraki for near half a year now. They’d seen more than a few minor skirmishes but no decisive battles as of yet. Khal Drogo was clever enough to not face them in a place that would make their horses a hindrance, and neither Jaehaerys or any of the other sellsword captains wanted to face the dothraki on an open field, until now that was. With the reinforcement of several elephants to their forces, and months of daily drilling with working in formations spears, pikes and backed up by archers they all felt ready. The presence of elephants seemed to make Drogo hesitant though._

_Jaehaerys glanced at the Tattered Prince who was astride his own horse beside him. “Wait here,” he told him grimly as he drew his sword. He was young still, barely eighteen, and was still yet to earn the respect of the other sellsword commanders outside of the Golden Company._

_“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” the Tattered Prince asked incredulously, he had the least tolerance for Jaehaerys, even though he himself had once led a company when this young._

_Jaehaerys smirked, “I’m going to pick a fight.”_

_Black Balaq gave a snort, “Well,” he said as he grinned at the Tattered Prince, “we didn’t get dressed up for nothing,” and with a bark of laughter Jaehaerys pushed his spurs into his horse’s flanks and charged straight at the dothraki._

_Galloping like the wind on his charger Jaehaerys steadied his breathing. When he got closer he had to steer away from a few loosened arrows but nothing threatening, and when he was close enough to be heard he started yelling._

_“COME OUT COME OUT LITTLE FOAL,” Jaehaerys yelled as he rode up and down before the dothraki, grinning at the angry screams and hisses they threw at him. “FACE ME IF YOU DARE LITTLE FOAL,” he shouted towards the Dothraki before making vulgar thrusting motions with his hips and arms. “OR ARE YOU NOTHING BUT A COCK STARVED MARE PLAYING AT WAR!”_

_With a scream of rage, half a dozen riders detached from the furious horde and rode straight for him. All six of them had long braids with several bells in their hair, though the biggest one of them had a braid that was so long it actually rested on his horse’s flanks. Jaehaerys grinned in anticipation at the look of raw fury on Khal Drogo’s face, and then let out a litany of curses as Drogo showed himself for the cur he truly was by having one of his five companions put an arrow straight into the eye of Jaehaerys’ horse._

_Only experience and finely tuned instincts saved Jaehaerys from a nasty fall as he managed to throw himself from his horse just in time to come into a roll. Drogo’s bloodriders circled him swiftly, trying to intimidate him, but Jaehaerys held his nerve, sword and shield at the ready._

_Two arrows he deflected with his shield before one of the riders broke off from his circling and headed straight for him. With blood pounding in his ears Jaehaerys sidestepped to the left with a spin and neatly severed the horse’s leg in a violent swing of his sword._

_Before he could even attempt to finish off the rider he was forced to swerve out of the path of another horse, this one collapsing to the ground with a pained whinny after Jaehaerys’ sword bit deep into its rear leg. Hearing a swoosh of displaced air Jaehaerys ducked instinctively, and shivered at the feeling of an arakh passing through his hair._

_By now the first bloodrider had gotten to his feet and was charging at Jaehaerys with a scream of fury. Rather than risk getting his blade stuck in his foe, Jaehaerys took the swing of the arakh on his mailed chest with a grunt and smashed the bloodrider thrice in the face with his shield before pushing him hard… right into the path of the rider who had nearly decapitated Jaehaerys._

_The horse reared at the sudden impact and Jaehaerys was quick to throw himself at the horse, putting all his weight into it. The horse toppled and before it could rise Jaehaerys had already severed the head of the rider. Spinning around he deflected the strike of the last bloodrider’s arakh before reversing his stroke opening the throat of his opponent._

_“FIGHT ME FAIRLY YOU HORSEFUCKING CUNT!” Jaehaerys bellowed at Drogo._

_To Jaehaerys’ surprise Drogo almost acquiesced. That is, he spoke a few words in his guttural language, causing the last two bloodriders to dismount and march towards him carefully. Unlike the others thee two of them worked together, trying to pen Jaehaerys in between them, but Jaehaerys was in no mood to play their games._

_Lunging towards the one in front of him he suddenly spun around and threw his shield towards the one to his left flank. The move caught the bloodrider by surprise and he keeled over with a howl of anguish as the sharpened edge of the shield neatly severed his nose. Pain suddenly shot through Jaehaerys as his gorget caught the edge of the other one’s arakh, no blood was drawn but the impact would indubitably leave a bruise. A second swing hit his side with enough force to break at least one of his ribs._

_Grimacing in pain Jaehaerys blocked the thirds strike inches away from his face and then removed one of his hands from his sword to unsheathe his dagger which he buried to the hilt in his opponent’s jugular. Walking swiftly, if gingerly, Jaehaerys crossed the distance to the last bloodrider who was still screaming over his severed nose and swung so hard that his sword drove right through his shoulder and lodged itself in his ribs and spine._

_Before he could attempt to dislodge his weapon however he could hear Drogo bearing down on him with an angry yell. Throwing himself to the side he landed on the ground with a pained grunt, his broken ribs making their protest clear._

_‘Breath of Balerion, he’s fast,’ Jaehaerys thought as he rolled, first to the left and then to the right, barely avoiding two of Drogo’s strikes. At the last one he lashed out blindly and grinned in triumph as Drogo moaned in pain at the sensation of Jaehaerys’ steel clad heel impacting him between the legs. Rolling away Jaehaerys rise to his feet and unlatched his last weapon from his belt, a small flanged mace, a foot and a half long with the head included._

_“Does it hurt, Little Foal?” Jaehaerys mocked Drogo as he tightened his grip on the mace in his hand. With no shield he would have to use his gauntleted left hand to ward of any strikes and hope the armour did its job._

_The insult did its job as Drogo surged forward and swung his arakh. Even though he knew it was coming Jaehaerys was still almost awestruck at the speed and finesse Drogo had with his chosen weapon, and surly noted that no man that big had any right to being so swift. Back and forth they went, Jaehaerys was mostly on the defensive. Half a dozen strikes he dodged or deflected before drawing his head back with a cry of pain._

_Drogo had in a surprise move stabbed with his arakh rather than swing it, and the surprising strike opened a deep cut on his cheek right underneath his eye. Tasting blood, Drogo tried once again to kill Jaehaerys only for Jaehaerys to step into the strike. Clenching his jaw shut, Jaehaerys refused to scream as Drogo’s arakh impacted on his side, no doubt breaking another rib. Half blind with pain Jaehaerys still had the strength to lock the arakh between his side and his arm. The following headbutt did nothing to his hazy vision, though Drogo had it worse, Jaehaerys’ forehead smashing into his jaw. With a pained yell, Jaehaerys raised his mace and brought it down onto Drogo’s knee with a sickening ‘ **snap** ’ and then the dothraki warlord tumbled to the ground with an agonized yell._

_Jaehaerys, struggling to stand, began laughing, a vicious and cruel sound, he turned to the Dothraki horde and screamed in the little Dothraki he knew, pointing at the shouting man, “ **THIS IS YOUR KHAL, YOUR GREAT KHAL OF KHALS**.” He smiled when they responded with screams of their own. Jaehaerys turned his attention back to the downed Horselord his eyes wide and wild with sick delight revelling in the rush coursing through him as the ‘Khal of Khals’ tried to crawl away from the young mercenary. He felt his grip on the mace tighten. “No, no, no, no, we aren’t finished yet, Little Foal. I owe you for these ribs.” He was speaking the Common Tongue now, wanting to make himself as clear as possible, knowing his meaning would be lost if he tried to translate, he wanted Drogo to know what was in store for him, for his people. The Khal was still crawling when Jaehaerys brought the mace down on his other leg. The gut-wrenching ‘ **snap** ’ that followed was almost as loud in Jaehaerys’ ears as the older man’s screams._

_“I will burn your Holy City,” He raised the mace again and brought it down on the base of the Horselord’s spine. ‘ **Snap.** ’ “Vaes Dothrak will be ash and dirt. Your ‘Great Stallion’ will die with your people. Smoke in the wind.” The Khal had stopped crawling now, paralysed from the waist down, his screams had died into loud groans and pleas in his base tongue. Jaehaerys knelt beside him and held his left arm still before bringing the mace down once again on the joint of Drogo’s elbow. ‘ **Crack.** ’ The man’s wail was long and high as Jaehaerys stood and moved to his right side. “Your soul will wander the afterlife without it’s horse, you will find no rest, no peace. Your corpse will be a feast for crows, unburied and unburnt. Your forefathers will wail and cry like their Khalessi wives as they watch me salt your green sea. The dreams of prophesy your wise-women claimed will come to naught as your legacies are turned to ash. I will pour the corpses of you people into the Womb of the World and watch its waters turn red and black with the blood of the civilisation it birthed. I will climb your Mother of Mountains and piss upon your lands. Your women will be slaves, your children dead or orphaned,” Drogo was sobbing by the time Jaehaerys’ mace crushed his right elbow. “And all will remember you, Drogo, son of Bharbo, the Foal Who Would Mount the World.”_

_Looking around, Jaehaerys spotted and then snatched up Drogo’s arakh. He grinned cruelly, as he raised Drogo’s head up by his long braid so he could stare into the black eyes of the Khal. “Goodbye Little Foal,” Jaehaerys said before swinging the arakh down, severing the head from the body in a fountain of blood that drenched Jaehaerys’ face and chest in red fluid._

_Swiftly fastening the severed head to his belt with the long braid of hair, Jaehaerys mounted Drogo’s stallion and raced back towards his army, narrowly avoiding the showers of arrows fired towards him by the now insensate horde of horsemen screaming as they pursued him, as he heard the war horn that sounded the charge of the sellsword forces._

Jaehaerys stood silent a moment as he stared blankly into nothing, he had been contemplating a way in which to tell them what he had done without portraying himself as lacking sanity and humanity, but he sighed. _Would he still see you as a son if he knew the extent of your bloodlust and cruelty?_ He asked himself in a mocking tone. His grey irises met his father’s own violet before he shrugged nonchalantly.

“With a sword through the neck, my lord. As any executioner would. I can’t show you his head,” he added with a click of the tongue, “As it currently resides on the walls of either Mereen or Yunkai,” He said to the men seated before him. “But his braid is the tassel of my helmet. I can have it brought, if you’d like?” He asked politely, until his father spoke.

“That will not be necessary, I’m sure our lords of the small council are content in all they’ve heard.” There was a tightness in his voice and Jaehaerys knew this would not be the last time his time a sellsword would be brought up with his father.

 

The Princess Born in Storm

 

She did love Summerhall, the white quartz stone, the rich red and black tapestries that decorated it now that construction had finished in its entirety and the refurnishing had been completed. She had wondered what the castle had been like in its glory days, before the Tragedy, before Aegon V had found his obsession with dragon eggs, before her oldest brother’s death had been heralded by the inferno that consumed the place. Even though she wasn’t really castellan of the royal palace, Rhaegar had asked her to be so in all but name, leaving her responsible for decoration and furnishing the large castle, “ _Make it our home away from the terror of this snake pit, sweet sister. A place in which our children and their children can know peace_. _A symbol of our growth as a house. That we Targaryens can move from our past and thrive again, without war or madness._ ” He said with one of the sad smiles that always seemed to make her feel his sorrow. She couldn’t have even imagined the pain he has suffered. The loss of so many. The melancholy and sadness at being labelled the ‘The Prince of Tragedies,’ when he was thought to be out of earshot. The pain Daenerys thought she would feel at the loss of a husband, her brother had experienced that twice. That and more. The loss of a child profound and absolute, talk-less of all the reminders that would have been following him around; Rhaenys, Aegon, Aerion, Visenya and Bael were a constant tell that there were once six but now in his grasp was five. In truth she felt his pain some, she had been of an age with Jaehaerys and Aegon and had been close with them when Rhaegar had sent his second son North only to have him ripped from hearts. He was always an emotional child, she remembered, quick tempered and boisterous. But there were times that she’d found her dark nephew, sat in solitude in his rooms or in the yard with a small practice blade as he hit a false-man. He was weird, Jaehaerys, a boy always looking for something that was not there.

She was atop the white and grey palfrey horse that had been a gift from one suitor, in the line of many that had attempted to win her heart. Unlike her nieces and nephew, Rhaegar had granted his siblings the freedom of choice. Though unlike her, Viserys had found himself a beautiful Lyseni noblewomen to call wife. He was on Dragonstone, or more likely heading to King’s Landing _from_ Dragonstone, as she was from Summerhall, on the King's summons. Rhaegar had asked him to take care of it until Aegon left to assume his role as Prince of the island castle, but had also made Viserys Lord of Duskendale. _A boon that Viserys constantly reminds Rhae he is ever grateful for._ She thought with a smile as the Red Keep came into view. She missed her brothers, Viserys hard irritable expression that would give way to a warm even if reluctant smile. Rhaegar's gift with the harp, and his strong and protective presence. Her family was all she had and all she needed. She knew sooner, rather than later, she would marry and have her own. But for now, the comfort she drew when she visited from the castle in the Stormlands would be enough for her. She found her thoughts going back to the news she had received only two weeks past.

She was filled with mixed emotions and excitement, as she had been since word reached Summerhall of her nephew resurfacing. _“He’s alive?”_ Was the first thing that she had asked the messenger that had ridden south from King’s Landing to summon her to court and greet Jaehaerys. The man had even described him, and she’d been convinced at the grey eyes. That had been almost two weeks ago. The six-day ride to the capital had been uneventful, and as she rode through the King’s Gate, up towards the keep she had known as home all her life.

As she rode into the Keep’s outer yard with some guardsmen and a small number of the household from Summerhall she wasn’t greeted by her brother and his family. Instead she was greeted by what seemed to be the entirety of court, with their backs to her as they watched something. From her elevated position atop her horse she looked into the centre of the circle and she saw what it was that held their attention in such a strangler vice-like grip. _A duel_ , she thought boredly as her amethyst eyes focused on the two males that were stood about eachother with swords raised and ready. _The entire court holds their breath and stills the beating of their hearts to witness a duel?_ She called to one of the lords closest to her, the crossed feathers over the heart of his chestnut doublet named him a Penrose or something similar sounding. He was broad man of mid height and grey hair. Even after the years he'd seen his jaw was still hard and his skin firm. 

“Would you mind telling me what is going on my lord?” She asked courteously with a polite smile. “Why would there be so many to watch a common practice bout?” Her eyes went away from him to scan the crowd to see that her nieces and nephews were also watching with baited breath.

“Princess,” The older man exclaimed with a cough and a short bow. “’Tis a duel, Your Grace, in response to a challenge issued by the Knight of Flowers to the Prince.” His voice was raspy but understandable, and she looked to the centre of the yard again and saw Ser Loras on the ground. Her brow furrowed as the knight stood and she looked to the shirtless male with dark hair, tall and broad.

“The Prince?” She asked as she looked back down at the old lord. “Jaehaerys? The King’s second son?”

“Aye, Your Grace, the dark one,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dany's pov was the biggest pain in the ass. Not happy with it if I'm honest, but I wanted to get this out there for you guys to give your own opinions. Tell me what you think could be added or improved on. I reply to most if not every comment, and I'll probably revamp the entire chapter once I'm further into the story and can write Dany better. This is my first fic after all. *le shrug*


	6. Confrontations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for a friend and his grandmother, who passed away recently. You'll be missed, Grandmama Belaerys. May the Lord of Light guide her into his burning light, and bright embrace. For the night is dark and full of terrors.

**The Red Viper of Dorne**

The mattress itself was soft and relaxing, made of a sort of foam that the Lyseni had begun to implement into the beds of their pleasure manses. It gave Oberyn a sort of floating feeling as he lay back, his head sinking into the soft, feather-filled, silk pillows that headed his large, Lord-sized bed. He groaned as the warm sensation of wet lips left his member to place kisses up his olive-skinned torso. Ellaria always knew how to make his blood rise, even when it was already up. He looked down and met her deep pools of mahogany and gave her a bright and honest smile. She was one of the few in whose presence that he would allow himself to be more that the Prince of Dorne, more that the Red Viper. With Ellaria, his niece and his daughters he was Oberyn, just Oberyn. Ellaria was peppering his chest with soft, sensual kisses before pressing her lips to Oberyn’s and searching the far away look in his eyes, concerned.

“What troubles you my love?” Her lips had assumed the worried pout that Oberyn had seen her wear often when their children were still small and fragile. He wanted to say nothing was wrong, that he was just lost in thought. But in truth, thinking about his children had brought darker memories to the forefront of his mind. _My girls,_ he thought as his eyes refocused on his paramour’s. _My beautiful daughters._

“Nothing, just thinking.” He said simply, choosing not to dwell on his lack of a son. And he kissed her again, pulling her nakedness into his own as he flipped them, laying atop her. As their lips parted her legs wrapped around his waist, inviting him.

Oberyn brought a hand between them, ready to oblige until he heard the base of a staff sound against the tile flooring of his chamber. He looked away from Ellaria’s toned midsection and turned to the doorway, seeing the massive form of Areo Hotah standing in the doorframe, his guardsmen robe; smooth and pristine as they always were but his beard was shock white and stopped just above his Adam’s Apple. The long axe that stood only slightly taller than the man himself gleamed in the light of the morning sun.

“Prince Oberyn,” Hotah said, his Norvosi roots evident in the faint accent the man still held, even after years of service in the Dornish sands to House Martell. “Your brother requests your presence.”

Oberyn observed the man a moment, eyes narrowing slightly. He knew if it wasn’t urgent news Doran would not have sent his captain of the guard, but there was no urgency in the Hotah’s voice. He looked to Ellaria before turning back to the former slave-soldier.

“I’m sure my brother wouldn’t mind waiting a bit longer, Areo.” He said playfully before noticing the tightening in the large man’s brow. “Alright, alright, tell him I’m coming.” Oberyn’s jaw was taunt as he forced himself away from Ellaria’s warm legs to stand. He looked at Areo as the man didn’t move, only stood there with his arms crossed, waiting. Oberyn locked eyes with the axeman and walked to the lounging chair where his robes and breeches were.

The double door to Doran’s solar was a deep and rich ivory, it had been the door to the solar of the head of House Martell for near two hundred years, and it was still as smooth and crackles as it was when Oberyn was a boy. He looked at the blazing sun and spear carved into the thick wood before he reached forward and pushed the door open.

As was usual, Doran Martell was seated in the wheeled chair that aided his movement around Sun Spear. His legs, though riddled with gout were not as twisted as they once were. The Prince of Dorne had the Maesters of the Citadel and one of Rhaegar’s red priests to thank for that. As Oberyn entered, Doran’s eyes did not leave the scrap of paper that he was reading, but he greeted Oberyn just the same.

“Brother. I expected you earlier.”

“I was in the middle of something, Doran, we cannot all be at your beck and call,” Oberyn said slyly as Doran placed the page on his desk, focusing his dark eyes on his brother’s the meaning behind Oberyn’s words clearly not lost to him. “What is it that you wanted? There are things that I would rather be doing.” The playful smirk on his lips growing.

“Of that, little brother, I am sure. There has been a letter. A declaration if anything. From the King.” Oberyn’s jaw set. _How you can still call that piece of shit King, I’ll never know._ “You’re to go North, to Summerhall.”

“And why in all the seven hells, would I be going? Summerhall is still in the process of reconstruction, and the Dragons are as elitist as it gets when it comes to their leisure palace.” Those were poor excuses, he knew. But Rhaegar was… The only thing that made Oberyn stay his hand and not kill the silver haired fool was Rhaenys and Aegon. _They’re all that’s left of her now. And I’ve been forced to spend such little time with them because of that fucking lout and his bitch queen._

As Doran explained the sudden arrival of the Stark woman’s son, Oberyn – as much as he didn’t want to – found it amusing, ballsy and almost likeable to hear how the Northern prince was sat waiting for the royal family. _I suppose it’s the Eastern prince now though._ Oberyn looked at his brother and raised a rich, dark haired eyebrow.

“You still have not answered my question, Doran. What does any of _that_ have to do with _me_ going to Summerhall? Surely, Quentyn or Trystane would be expected to go. Hell, _you_ should be going.” Oberyn already had some notion as to why he was being sent, but even after all these years he still could never be sure what went on in the maze his brother called a mind.

“Quentyn and Trystane are going, yes, Arianne wished to go as well but there are things she must learn if she is to get what she constantly reminds me is her birth right. My sons are going to show that though Dorne does not have presence at the King’s court, House Martel are still Lords Paramount. But you, dear brother, are going to gauge the Sellsword Prince.” Doran said, his eyes doing some hidden equation or calculation that Oberyn could not see.

“You mean him to be Arianne’s consort?” Oberyn said with a sceptical face. Surely their ages were far from compatible, if he remembered correctly, Arianne had near seven years on the boy that went missing.

“I don’t _mean_ for him to be anything, Oberyn. I just want all pieces on the board if a game is to be played. From the informants I have in the capital, the boy has his own personal guard, and a small army at his beck and call that consists of a race the world thought long extinct. That and the rumours of his escapades in the East are somewhat grandiose. I want you to go and find out if he’s a man worthy of my daughter. Seeing as she refuses to marry any of the suitors I have provided.”

Oberyn laughed slightly at that recalling the response she gave to Doran the last time she rejected yet another suitor.

“ _The only Dornishman I would ever marry, dear father, carries a greatsword upon his back and only wears white.”_ She replied snidely, before turning on her heels and leaving her father pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You want me to be spy?”

“No, I want you to go and be a good uncle and look out for your niece. As well as take care of my son’s.”

“So you want me to spy.” He didn’t even bother to hide the smirk on his face this time, he enjoyed the frustrating of his brother and his refusal to accept gilded words and smart phrases.

“Just go, Oberyn.” Doran said with a sigh, clearly giving up on his attempt to feign ignorance.

Oberyn laughed and turned to the door, throwing up a hand in good bye, “Don’t worry, brother, I’ll go spy for you – I mean be a great uncle.” He said, laughing again as Doran’s exasperated groan reached his ears.

 

**The Shark Eater**

 

There were few women that Aedar Raentarys, son of Aelon and Daerya Raentarys respecter, and fewer men still. But Jaehaerys Targaryen was one of that few. He watched as his Archon sparred with one of the warband, and came to remember times where he stood with the older boys during the Bakanaelys, watching the younger ones try to kill eachother, to prove their strength. He remembered his own trial, they sent him North, into the wilds and he changed then.

As his Archon flipped Maedryn, one of the Baedor siblings, Aedar felt something poke his thigh. Looking down he saw the top of a head of brilliant, silver hair, much like his own. He stepped back and crouched down in front of the boy. It was the youngest of his Archon’s siblings. Bael, Jaehaerys had called him.

“You’re really tall,” the young prince said as his eyes – an odd mist of violet and purple with green and emerald undertones – met Aedar’s. The laugh Aedar gave was full and loud, causing a few to look his way and a number of those who were near enough to hear the Prince’s observation to laugh with him.

“Aye, young Bael, I am.” He said finally, before ruffling his hair and walking to sit with his Archon and the men he called brothers. As he sat on one of the stools next to Jaehaerys on the edge of the courtyard where they trained, Jaehaerys called his younger brother over to him and sat the boy in his lap, it was weird for Aedar to see it. The boy was near old enough to be taken to the Bakanaelys for training, but he still had the childhood innocence that Aedar had been forced to lose before even reached that age. It gave him a weird sensation to see the boy’s overjoyed face as Jaehaerys let the boy hold Silence, a Valyrian steel dagger that he was fond of enough to name, recanting stories of the battles he fought in to the lad and the Westerosi men and women that were listening.

It made Aedar think of a time long passed, a time filled with pain and grief as he held a cold babe and a colder wife in his arms before giving them to the flames.

As the thoughts of his family left his mind one of the Western men walked forward, flanked by two others that seemed to be his friends. His hair was long and well kept, like those women that wouldn’t stop touching Aedar’s chest and giving him and his brothers looks of longing, as though asking to be bed. The boy looked at them all before he turned to face Jaehaerys, a smug smirk on his lips. Behind him were near five and ten women and girls, fawning and obsessed over the knight. His armour almost made the group of them laugh, stones and flowers littered the silver-steel and gold plate.

“I’m hearing many stories about you, _Your Grace_. It seems you might be as great a fighter as the Warrior himself.” Aedar could already feel the challenge coming, and from the small smile on Jaehaerys’ lips at a side glance, he knew his Archon did too.

“Stories are just that, Ser Loras. Stories. There are men here beside me that are greater warriors than I.” Aedar laughed at that before looking the Flowered armour up and down.

“ **If this one wants a fight, let me call for my sister and she can teach him. In fact, make it fair, Archon, give your brother a spoon and let him go at it.”**

Taemarys, Baedryn and Gaegor joined him in laughing as Haelyra stepped through the small crowd that was growing.

“I’ve seen whores and serving girls who looked like they’d put up more of a fight,” she said with a smirk as she walked to lean against Jaehaerys’ now standing form, her own smirk on her face. She was in naught but tight leather breeches and one Jaehaerys’ black tunics, the strings of the collar loosely done, showing a generous amount of cleavage. “ **I woke and found our bed empty, you can imagine my disappointment at such a sight,** ” She mumbled into their Archon’s ear, and Aedar had to take a step away from the two.

 One of the two behind Loras had his eyes glued to her chest, and Aedar had to resist the urge to stand and ram his elbow into the boy’s face. He looked to Jaehaerys who had put an arm on Haelyra’s waist, pulling her further into his chest, but his face remained calm and composed.

“You should teach your bed warmer manners, Your Grace. She speaks in the presence of nobility and royalty,” the other one, taller and effeminately featured one spoke.

As Jaehaerys let go of Haelyra’s waist, Aedar heard Maedryn sigh and saw Gaegor shake his head from the corner of his vision. Aedar only grinned as he watched Haelyra walk toward the young male and looking up at him. She stood there a moment, just watching him as he shuffled slightly under her gaze. Without warning Haelyra rammed her fist into the male’s gut, Aedar’s grin only grew as he doubled over, gasping.

“You filthy bi-,” He started as he raised his head, only to be interrupted by Haelyra’s forehead slam into the bridge of his nose, breaking it. The boy’s shout was loud and high-pitched as he leaned backwards, reaching for his nose, only for it to go four pitches higher as Haelyra grabbed both his shoulders and brought her knee up to his groin. Aedar and the other Valyrian males winced and brought their hands to their own groins in a moment of sympathy as her crumpled to the ground gasping for breath.

“I warm his bed, and much, much more, **boy-fucker**.” She finished in High Valyrian as she returned to Jaehaerys’ side, a content expression on her face as she watched him roll around, before being pulled up by some other men.

Loras looked her with an amused half smile before turning his attention back to Jaehaerys and from what Aedar could see, was enjoying the sight. Those of the Old Blood, were physical perfect, the vessels of great magic, but the Archon families were the vessels of the gods themselves, and even after – what Aedar had learned through conversation with his Archon was – hundreds of years of mixing with those of less pure blood, Jaehaerys was the pinnacle of that. Aedar attributed it to his mother’s family. Jaehaerys had told him the Starks were one of the last uncontaminated First Men lineages left in Westeros, and it was known to all Valyrians that their own people were once First Men, before the gods gifted them dragon’s blood.

“Your lover is quite the woman, Your Grace,” the man clad in flowered armour said as he finished staring at Jaehaerys’ bare chest. “Quite… Fearsome.”

“That she is, Ser Loras. But I do believe you came to me looking for something, other than the detail of my body.” Jaehaerys said with a small laugh, causing the knight to turn a hint of red.

“ **Aye, Archon, this one came looking to receive the Dragon’s Horn.** ” Laughed Taemarys, and Aedar looked to Bael, they young prince’s face one of confusion, before he remembered that Jaehaerys told them that his family was raised to learn High Valyrian. He brought a hand to his mouth to hold his laugh.

“What was that?” Loras asked with a raised eyebrow, his lips puckering slightly in an inquisitive manner.

“He said that, he thinks you want to die,” Jaehaerys said dismissively, which caused even Haelyra to join Aedar and the others in laughter.

“I came seeking a duel,” the boy was visibly flustered now, “I wish to see if the rumours about your prowess with the blade are true, Your Grace,”

“No.” Jaehaerys said simply before turning his attention back to Bael, ruffling his brother’s hair.

“I’d ask that you reconsider.”

“I don’t _duel_ , Loras. You knights and your pleasantries and displays, I remember watching a duel once. Just looked like clowns waving sticks. I _fight._ ” Jaehaerys said, trying to dismiss the lordling.

“Then fight me, if you would prefer the difference in terminology.” He was a persistent little bastard, Aedar had to give him that, but he was a fool all the same.

Jaehaerys looked him up and down, with an underwhelmed expression on his face, before completely turning his back on him. “I think it best you venture to a brothel and find some men to fight there.”

When Aedar heard the crowd’s mumbling and the gasps of the women around them, he was slightly confused, _‘Did they not know?’_ He thought, until he looked at one of the girls that had been a part of the boy’s entourage and his was more amused than confused, ‘ _They didn’t know.’_ Aedar thought it was clear as the blue sky above them, but apparently in the West, men who were lovers of other men must have been scarcer than they were in the East.  As the slight sigh of steel being freed, reached their ears Aedar and the other Valyrians faced the boy and as one they all made to step forward.

“ **Stop.** ” Was all Jaehaerys said and they all froze, Aedar was the closest of all of them and already had a ham-sized fist pulled back beginning the motion of his punch. Kingsmen were already making their way through the crowd after seeing the six Valyrians step forward to defend their Archon.

“You know the price for bearing steel in the presence of royal blood is maiming or death, right?” Jaehaerys said with a sigh as he gestured with his hands for the guards to back off. Aedar dropped his hand, and Taemarys, Haelyra and the others relaxed into a neutral stance as Loras

“You really want that fight, don’t you?” He said, eyebrow raised as he turned to his Valyrian companions, “Alright then.” He finished with a shrug. “You can have it.”

 

**Jaehaerys**

“Are you sure you won’t wear armour, Your Grace?” Ser Loras asked as he handed one of the men he had come with – Elryn of house Cockshaw, if he was remembering correctly. He looked at Loras a moment, Lord Mace’s youngest son. It was clear that the King’s Master of Coin pampered and spoiled him, and more than likely his entire family. _‘I’d wouldn’t be surprised if your whole family are as flowered and queer as you.’_

“I see no need for wasted time, effort in gathering it and then wearing it.” He replied with a shrug before turning to Haelyra who handed him a guardsman’s sword.

“I would do the same, give me a moment to strip of my armour and leave us on equal footing.”

Jaehaerys flexed the muscles of his stomach as he tilted his head. “Then let us do this, as it was done in Valyria.” Jaehaerys said in a serious and near ceremonious tone. “First blood from the torso, no steel between blade and skin, only skin. No dancing around in plate enough to protect the virtue of a dozen maidenheads.” _Though I doubt there is need for that with you and yours so close at hand_. That went unsaid, but he could tell by the slight narrowing of the pretty knight’s eyes that he got the meaning. Loras took his sword from the gold and green, rose-engraved scabbard, he turned to Jaehaerys and bowed slightly before turning to crowd.

He noticed the slight twitch in Loras’ face when he was wished luck by a number of the older lords, _Hiding smirks and arrogance behind pretty words and a prettier face._ He couldn’t wait to end those falsities, in the near three weeks he’d been in King’s Landing, he had heard tell of many great knights, Ser Barristan and Ser Arthur he had grown up with their legends, but Loras was of Jaehaerys’ age and he was being mentioned in the same breath, yet had seen neither serious combat nor battle. ‘ _A glorified tourney knight.’_ Jaehaerys said to himself as he watched Loras smile at the crowd and kiss the hands of three young women, asking for their favours.

“Let us make an agreement, Prince Jaehaerys, a pact of sorts,” Loras said as he rolled his shoulders, still playing the role of the gallant and chivalrous knight. “Regardless the outcome of this exchange, both the victor and the loser will put their past feelings aside, and apologize for their uncouth statements, coming to peace.”

“There is no peace between the Dragons and men,” Was all Jaehaerys replied as he waved away the shield that a man at arms offered to him.

He stood straight and tall, his sword in his left hand, and his sword hand flexing. He’d give Loras fair opportunity, Loras chose to keep his jewelled armour, to give the knight the chance to prove he was more than just a pretty face.

“When you’re ready, Loras.” Jaehaerys said with a smile.

In his mind’s eye he was walking into that place again. The room with a blue bonfire. He looked at Loras, his own silvered eyes glinting against the lukewarm mud of Loras’. Without word of reply, Loras stepped forward, his shield raised and sword low. Jaehaerys stood still and waited for the knight’s movements. He watched as Loras lunged forward, shield-first, the rim of it raised for his nose, as he leaned his head back out of the shields arcing swing, Loras’ sword thrust was low and expected. Using his own to parry the strike he stepped back and held his blade straight-armed, blade tip out. A crowd had gathered, he could see that from the peripheral of his view. And more were coming still. He let his eyes focus on Loras once more, and he felt again the warmth of the blue fire in his mind as it grew, little by little. They continued their exchanges near half a dozen more times, it was surprising, if Jaehaerys was honest with himself, the knight was better than he expected.

But that only meant he was better than mediocre.

“You’re better than I thought you would be,” Jaehaerys whispered as they locked steel in a mighty clash of strength. “But that’s not really saying much is it, boy-lover?” He dropped his shoulder and thrust it forward into Loras’ sternum sending him stumbling back again a few yards.

Loras let out a roar of anger and lunged forward. As with most knights his moves were harsh, focusing on power and strength, great, though swift heaves and hacks, each and every one of them capable of ending Jaehaerys’ life, but Jae had done this dance before. For eight years he had fought with duellists, sellswords, pirates and all manner of scum. What was Loras’ privileged sword, when compared to the Unsullied slaves? Or his strength when held against the axemen of Norvos? Or his swiftness when weighed with thought of Drogo, whose braid hung as a tassel from Jaehaerys’ own helm. No, Loras was a common man, and he knew just how handle the likes of Ser Loras.

Loras’ first strike was ducked under, a following thrust was sidestepped. Letting Loras continue forward, Jaehaerys stepped down on the back of the Tyrell’s knee, sending the green boy stumbling to the ground. Jaehaerys could hear the opening of the main gates and the sound of horses but he couldn’t look away from the fight, he was on cusp of the abyss of violence that he once called home and he wanted to plunge in again, he _needed_ to. He wanted to laugh at the stumbling knight but felt his estimation for the Reachman rise though when Loras instinctively swung his shield arm around his back to deflect Jaehaerys’ blade, and was forced to admit that the greenboy had more skill than he originally thought.

Loras came at him again, and this time Jaehaerys met his blade with his own. The two sharpened pieces of steel clashed together, and Jaehaerys twisted slightly, locking their blades together. Pushing both their blades upwards, he suddenly disengaged and smashed his sword down, almost laughing at Loras let out a pained howl as Jaehaerys’ pommel broke his nose, and before Loras could regain his bearings, Jaehaerys planted his right boot into Loras’ waist and sent the Tyrell boy to the ground.

Jaehaerys stepped back and switched hands, his sword now in his right hand, his sword hand, rather than the left. “Come, come little Rose, we’re not done yet,” he taunted, feeling the great blue flames engulf all notions of respect. He grinned wildly as Loras angrily threw away his shield in favour of being able to use both hands on his blade.

There was a different tone to this fight. Loras was still angry, though weary, and showed everyone that he did have a modicum of skill rather than just good looks, and Jae. Well, Jaehaerys was happy to oblige. Rather than again, demolishing the tourney knight, he let his inner showman, come forth. Back and forth they fought, Jaehaerys mostly back-pedalling as he let Loras lead the fight. Rather than strike, Jaehaerys spent his effort to make it a compelling show for the audience, drawing out many a gasp or the occasional scream from the onlookers as he narrowly avoided or blocked Ser Loras’ strikes, until Ser Loras overstepped on his lunge, letting Jaehaerys who sidestepped it grab Ser Loras’ wrist, and with a hard twist, Ser Loras’ blade clattered to the ground.

“Again,” Jaehaerys barked as he stepped back a bit. “Pick up your blade sword swallower, I’ve still to make you bleed.”

Wearily, the now heavily breathing Ser Loras Tyrell picked up his blade, after throwing a worried look to his lover who was watching with horror in his eyes, Loras stepped forward to press the assault again, and this time, Jaehaerys was in no more mood for games.

The bout had gone on long enough, and with an elegant twist of his sword he sent Ser Loras’ blade flying into the air. A moment later, before the blade had even started to fall to the ground, Loras collapsed with an agonised wail as Jaehaerys left a red cut across his previously immaculate hairless chest. It was deep enough to scar, but the Prince had regained enough mental control to not do anything too functionally damaging.

“Tha’ll leave a mark,” a guardsman remarked from somewhere in the crowd, pointing out the slice from Jaehaerys’ blade, which had sliced just above one of his nipples.

“Lord Renly, your...friend needs attention,” Jaehaerys said with a slight smirk before turning his eyes back to the whimpering form of Ser Loras. “Let that be a lesson little Rose, Flowers turn ash against the heat of a dragon’s fury.”

 

_**\---------------------** _

** Author’s Note; **

** So, it looks like I have some explaining to do. Firstly, I want to say a massive thank you to Daemon, who helped with this chapter (You all should thank him too btw, don’t want an angry Norwegian Marine trying to assassinate me.) The Last two months/two months and a half have been really hectic for me and I do appreciate all the love and patience that you guys as readers have provided for both me, and the fic itself. **

** So where have I been?  **

** Well, I have been working on a lot of side projects (Expect an update for my ‘Oneshots’ folder, as well as an update for Blood of the Conqueror in the next week [Or two]). Apart from all this, I have a lot of real world shit to deal with now too, I’m starting Medschool, and I’ve moved. So as much as I want to promise you all that I’ll be back to a regular upload schedule, I can’t. For the most part I do _want_ to get out a new chapter for this once every two to three weeks, until I’m fully adjusted to my new lifestyle. But again, to that I can make no promises. **

** Please do review and comment, I love to read all of them, and I’ll try to get back into my old habit of replying to all of them. Drop some suggestions and the like, ways that you see the plot could go, I love your imaginations.  **

** Once again, I’m sorry for the wait, and do hope that you all enjoy this story, as much as I do writing it. **

** Gratitude, **

** KadenIV. **


	7. Madness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait.

The Hand That Wields the Morning

“Are you out of your mind?” Rhaegar was in disbelief as he stared at the tapestry of Aegon the Dragon and his sister-wives that hung on the wall behind his chair in the King’s Solar. His voice was strained and hard, clearly holding back the anger that was boiling and bubbling beneath his sculptured features.

“Do you even realise the kind of impression you’ve given those present? Many of those lords and ladies would believe you a savage for the time you spent in Essos and here you are doing nothing to dismiss those notions.” The King did have the right of it. Over the fortnight since the Prince arrived, more news from the East came with the ships that docked in the bays and harbours. And on more than one occasion Arthur had heard the hushed conversations that referred to Jaehaerys as the ‘ _Butcher of Dothrak’_ it wasn’t the most flattering of titles, Arthur admitted to Rhaegar when the King brought it up in conversation some nights past. But war was war.

“And?” It still shocked Arthur at times when he looked at him, the type of man the Prince had become, the hard exterior was to be expected, in Arthur’s mind, _not even two moons past he was a sellsword commander, now he’s a sellsword commander called “Prince” by those around him._

“And you can’t go around maiming lordlings, Brother. Especially not those whose father’s sit the Small Council and control entire regions, as well as are responsible for the commerce and coin of the kingdom,” Aegon explained, with a small smile as Rhaegar looked at his Northern son in disbelief. Arthur was found himself smiling from his position near the back of the room at the thoughts of a future he hoped to see; an older Aegon, the ringlet of dark swirled steel embedded with rubies seated on his brow as he conversed with his dark-haired brother, a pin denoting the station of Hand on Jaehaerys’ chest.

_But there is much to be learned and seen before any of that becomes more than just fantasy._

“I’m not seeing what I did wrong in this situation,” Jaehaerys replied as he folded his arms over his chest, a look of mild annoyance on his features, “I _told_ him multiple times that it would not end well, I even gave him the opportunity to wear his armour. It is hardly my fault that the Flowered Knight should stick to tourneys and his gossip circles.”

“It’s even less of what you did, Jae. You both agreed the terms of the bout, that is clear.” Aegon assented with a sigh.

“It has to do with what you said, son. There are certain things that you can and cannot speak of in front of a crowd.” Rhaegar finished Aegon’s thought as he took a seat.

“I said nothing that wasn’t already clear, all he did was stare at my men and I. The whole crowd could see it. I don’t see what the issue is, Father. Gilded tongues and smiling faces, pandering to chubby lords and their spoiled children is beneath us, those that came before us pandered to no one.”

“And look how far that got them, Brother. The Realm is more stable now, than it has been in a long time, Jae, you haven’t been around long enough to see that.”

It was clear to Arthur that words that justified what to Prince Jaehaerys seemed like weakness held no ground in the lad’s mind.

 _He’s at home, in a place where peace and prosperity go hand in hand with what can be seen as softness and lack of strength. To have been at war constantly, only to suddenly know peace, there must be no stranger feeling._ Arthur observed from his position. He was the Sword of the Morning, had bled Dawn countless times in so many battles, but there was a kind of emination from Jaehaerys. Something akin to a smell that Arthur knew he could only feel because of his own time with the sword. The thing that told lesser men that death was all they would find if they met him on the field. His presence, was something Arthur had encountered in few men, men like Robert when hammer was in hand, and Rhaegar in his black and rubied armour, and his white brothers. Even Eddard Stark appeared to have it that day outside the tower.

It wasn’t until Jaehaerys sighed and turned away from his father and brother did Arthur realise he had lost himself in the memories of years passed. As Jaehaerys closed the door to Rhaegar’s solar, the King turned to Arthur, a deep thought and melancholic expression on his features.

“We’re to depart for Summerhall in a sennight, Arthur. I had hoped he would have adjusted by now, at least calmed some, the Realm gathers to see my lost son returned, and yet I barely even recognise the boy I knew.”

It was moments like this that Ser Arthur was again made aware that his King, his friend, was as much a normal man as the rest of them, prone to the same worries and fears that any father would have for his children. He’d rarely seen it in the years that followed Jaehaerys’ disappearance, but he’d already witnessed it multiple times since.

“The boy you knew has faded into the past, Your Grace, if he has not gone completely already. The man you see was forged in blood and war, without the feeling of family. Peace is a foreign concept to him,” Arthur answered, walking to stand before the King and his heir. “My gathering from his mentality in this instance, it’s clear that had this been Essos, the way in which the incident with Loras turned out would have been a more mild and restrained outcome than we could hope to expect.”

“He just needs time to rewire, Father.” Aegon voiced, standing from his own seat infront of the King’s desk. “Aunt Dany arrived today, Father. Jae has been hinting at something we need to see since the day he arrived, all that remains is Uncle Viserys.”

“Viserys sent word he would meet us at Summerhall, his wife delivered their babe only a week passed and he wished to stay with them a while more.” Rhaegar said with a smile, “A boy, Daeron.”

Arthur felt himself smile at the news, Viserys had been his brother’s most avid supporter when Rhaegar’s judgement was called into question in the years that followed Jaehaerys’ disappearance. The Lord of Duskendale had an heir, and the Targaryen family increases in strength.

_And the Realm’s security is cemented._

The Rose’s Daughter

 _Monster._ She thought as her brother lay still in a sleep aided by Milk of the Poppy, his chest and torso wrapped in a gauze that the maester had made to help heal the wound. _Only a beast would hurt someone so, in a duel to test eachother,_ she thought as she brought a hand gently to Loras’ clammy cheek, a pained expression on his face as he battled whatever the Poppy showed him in his sleep. _Only a monster would say such things to you and laugh still, Loras._ She had yet to speak with the Prince since he arrived those weeks passed, and she had resolved the only words she would speak to him when she did would be of reprimand and rebukal. When Lord Renly had told her of the the events of the yard after placing Loras in his bed, a maester’s apprentice in his wake, she had been shocked.

What sort of man was the Prince her Lord Father hoped she might marry? That was the question she had asked herself in the days that followed the conversations with her grandmother, where she was tasked with finding out for herself. And now she knew, he was a cruel and violent man. She had seen him on numerous occasions, greeted him even. And even in the clothes he wore-those far unfitting a person of his station and pedigree-he was handsome, roguishly so, the scars and the hair added detail and face vision that had frequented her bed on nights she felt… wanting. But those subconscious wants had become overshadowed by the things that the Lord had whispered into her ear. She might have never thought he would be capable of such affronts, even the rumors of what he was said to have done in the East she found too dark to believe, and she would not have believed them at all, had she not seen the product of such laying before her. But after all, even Maegor, as cruel and evil as the Maesters remember him, was as handsome as a Prince should be.

“Sister,” The groan was silent and almost didn’t reach her ear, but it brought her from her thoughts regardless. “Margaery,” Loras said, his voice weaker, “Where am I?”

She smiled at him, happy that he had woken, though she knew it would be short. The Milk of the Poppy forced him in and out of consciousness countless times in the time since the maester left him.

“You’re in bed, Loras,” she cooed gently, brushing a wet strand of hair from his forehead as he faded once again into the dark.

The candle by his bedside flickered as though about to be snuffed out by a breeze, but it wasn’t.

“He seems to be doing well.”

Margaery’s head swivelled towards the doorway, following the new voice, a familiar voice. Before she even replied she stood, putting herself between the bed and the door.

“What do you want?” The words were sharp and flew from her tongue before she could stop herself. She had to fight the urge to apologise, her grandmother had taught her to always be mindful of her tone in the presence of those who would consider themselves her betters. That training and urge had almost won. Almost.

“This Rose has thorns, it seems,” Jaehaerys spoke as he leaned against the door frame, his arms folded over his chest, his face holding slight amusement, and his eyes. They seemed to glow in the candle light. She let her eyes wander over him. Beneath his clothes she could see the hints of lean, strong muscles. He was in a black doublet, the cuffs and collar a mix of blue and grey flames, he was dressed as a Prince should, and she wondered how it was so easy to cloak the savagery beneath.

“Again, _Your Grace_ , I’ll ask you. What do you want?” Her voice was hard and her stance defiant, though it wavered some when the Prince made to come closer. What put her more on edge was how he seemed to ignore her. Even as she moved to block his path to Loras, he simply feigned to one side and when her body moved to follow him he changed direction and slipped passed her.

By the time she turned around he was already sitting on the bedside, watching Loras shiver in his sleep. It was a strange thing to see. She almost made to disturb it, but she hesitated, and in that moment what she saw confused Margaery more than anything else could have. The Prince had placed a hand on Loras’ shoulder, a conflicted expression on his face.

“He challenged me, you know,” Jaehaerys said, that smugness in his voice gone. “I told him to fuck off, said things that would have made lesser men lose themselves, and he didn’t balk. In the end I think he knew he stood no chance, but he came still.” Margaery was confused at the sudden change in his demeanour, she felt she was missing something.

“He was better than I thought he would be, no Dothraki screamer or Unsullied spearman, but he was good, could have been a part of the Company, a footman at best, but he would have been called brother all the same.” He said quietly, almost to himself. And in that moment Margaery found herself lost. The sea of anger that was meant to have spilled when she next saw the Prince-when she had _just_ seen the Prince-had seemingly dried and vanished. It stupefied her. She had expected a violent barbarian, the only thing that would even give him an air of civility would be the clothes he wore. But that was not what she saw. Not in the moment.

It was strange for Margaery, to see someone she was preparing a tirade of rebuke for handle her brother gently, with almost an intimate gentleness. A stranger, someone foreign to both the lands and those two as men, had that person come across them like this might be excused for mistaking them for brothers with the strongest of bonds if not lovers. That perception furthered when the Prince let his palm rest on Loras’ chest and bowed his head. She watched him, and as she did so, she felt the room grow warm, even if for half a heartbeat, before the breeze of the opened window returned.

And then the moment passed.

“You fought well.” Prince Jaehaerys said with a nod and stood from the bed. Margaery made to speak, but he only looked at her, his grey eyes almost silver and ethereal in the wavering light and the words she had in mind escaped her.

When he had left, closing the door behind him, Margaery found herself again at Loras’ bedside. His hand in hers. _He spoke as though he killed you._ She thought, with her eyebrows furrowed, but Loras was fine, the maester had told her that Milk of the Poppy was just to keep him from moving and tearing the stitches. It confused her to no end the more she thought of it. What she heard of how he was on the yard but then how he was just minutes ago, they seemed more the acts of two entirely different people, than anything else.

 

Aegon the Heir

It was past evening meal when one of the servants that tended to Jae came to them in Rhaenys’ room, with a request from their brother. A summons to the Red Keep’s grove, though oddly enough it wasn’t an immediate one. The servant boy had told them that their brother would send for them when he was ready.

“What do you think he wants to show us?” Aegon asked, his back against the window frame of Rhaenys’ bedchamber. It had been near three hours and still nothing, and he could feel himself losing patience.

The two had spent most of the day together, as they did most days. Aegon could scarcely remember a time of his life that he wasn’t in love with her. Everything about her showed him why. Of all his siblings, except maybe Aerion, Rhaenys was the sharpest, both in mind and of mouth. Yes, to Aegon Rhaenys was more than likely the most beautiful person he knew, but that beauty, though found in abundance through her features, was most evident in her mind. The way she saw things, analysed them and then explained those things with a conviction that every assonance was fact. That was what Aegon loved most about his sister. More than her dark, mahogany hair that flowed in waves down her back when free. More than those ebony eyes or her flawless midtone skin. More than the taste of her on his lips, or the press of her body against his. More than all that Aegon loved her mind.

“I don’t know,” she said flatly, as she slipped the dragon and spear broach he bought her into her hair. “But I’m sure if you do not stop looking at me like that we won’t find out tonight, Egg.”

“I’m not looking at you like anything, I’m thinking.” He rebutted making his way towards her. She was stood facing the large Myrish glass pane, observing heself when he stood behind herand ran his fingers up the sides of her waist.

“That, dear brother I doubt.”  she turned and buttoned to collar of the gold trimmed black shirt he was wearing and brushed his hair from his face with a gentle hand.

The instruction of to stay until called forhad been vague enough, but when a knock came from the door of Rhaenys’ solar and it was one of his brother’s Valyrian companions, dressed in the elaborate robing of their culture, the mystery only grew.

She was beautiful, much like Daenerys or Visenya was beautiful, but different from that too. Of all of Aegon’s siblings, Visenya’s sharp Valyrian features were the purest. But standing this close to her here and now, Aegon could see just how mixed the blood of his family was in comparison. Where even Visenya had a slight rounding of the chin and jaw, there was none here.

“I am Your Graces,” she said with a bow, her voice both stern and soft in a way he found entrancing, the Common Tongue trickled from her mouth in a honied accent, “Archon Jaehaerys would request your presence. There is something you must see. Something that you must do.”

“What is it?” Aegon asked, as they folowed her through the hall of Maegor’s Holdfast.

She ignored him.

The Grove of the Red Keep was a Godswood at some other point in time, but the great weirwood that might once have grown tall and white at the middle of the clearing in the centre of the grove had long since been reduced to a great round stump near as large as a table. The sapling was brought from the North by the Lord of Winterfell during the reign of Aegon the Conqueror as a sign of trust, but that seemed for naught when Baelor had the tree cut down at the request of the High Septon. The trees that did stand were tall, leafy oaks and maples that only allowed selected rays of sunshine into the small wood underneath the canopy. The grove itself was surrounded by walls of dark grey stone, with the entrance marked on either side by the statues of the original Rhaenys and Visenya, the Conqueror’s sisters and wives. _This was his favourite place, before the accident,_ Aegon thought solemnly as they walked the path behind their Valyrian escort, his mind still on details of Visenya’s stone face.

Visenya was always a cold person in life, that much was clear from all that he read, and there had been countless times that he’d seen that statue, and remembered a stern stone face, her mouth an unimpressed scowl. But when he had looked at it in the moments before they passed her, Aegon could have sworn the stonework was smirking, but as he blinked and looked again, focused on its features he saw no change from the stern scowl he’d been seeing for years. As they neared the clearing Aegon felt a breeze hit him, warm and inviting.

His brother had always used the Grove as it was intended; a Godswood. “ _When I’m there it’s like I can almost feel her, like she’s really watching me like Father always says.”_ Were the words Jaehaerys had spoked when Aegon asked why he liked it so much.

 _Mother’s ribbon, Lyanna’s gods._ He thought to himself, Aegon could relate, at least in some small sense.

“- seems we’re all here,” came Jaehaerys’ voice as they left the treeline completely, “Well, almost,” He conceded. “But what I have to show you has waited long enough. There is much that must be explained and done before Summerhall.” Aegon could feel his eyebrow raise in curiosity, even Rhaenys seemed interested in what Jaehaerys was saying. At least to the point of why they were standing in the middle of a wood at such an irregular hour of the night.

The clearing was large, and from the books in the Keep’s Library, it was man made. There were four torches in the centre of the clearing, around the stump that was the old remains of the weirwood. The entire family was present. All but Cersei. Aunt Daenerys-who had arrived earlier in the day-Aerion, Visenya, even young Bael, though judging by his expression he seemed to have been roused from sleep. The twelve were stood behind the large weirwood stump that Jaehaerys stood in front of. That was when Aegon noticed the chest that had been laid on the white-wood platform. It was a queer thing, large and bulky and rimmed in gold, or bronze based on how the torchlight bounced off the edges. Two the Valyrians were beside it, one on either side of it.

When Jae looked and met Aegon’s confused and curious expression, there seemed to be a slight lob-sided smile on his lips, before he faced their father. Rhaegar, Aegon saw from his face, was just as lost at the need for this gathering as he was.

“When I first came, Father,” Jaehaerys’ voice was crisp and strong in the night air, and Aegon found himself again wondering what exactly happened to the boy he knew during the time all thought him dead. In the two weeks since his brother’s return, Aegon had had numerous conversations with him, but Jaehaerys would always avoid answering direct questions.

“I told you of what I did, taking leave of the Company and venturing south. I was following this urge, a burning feeling that seemed to consume me the harder I tried to deny it, so I gave in. When I’d finally left the smoking sea, and moved passed the ruins of the peninsula, I made land fall one of the southern-most islands.

“There was green everywhere, as though the Doom never happened, so I ventured inland. Going until I found a structure of black, seamless stone. Inside it, there was a vault, it’s walls covered in runes-a mix of High Valyrian and some dead tongue-shelves full of ancient tomes that must not have been touched in centuries, masses of weapons and armors that were unlike anything I had ever seen. And then, at the very back of the vault, I saw this.”

Taking que, the two men that were closest to the chest lifted the latches, the metallic _clink_ and _thunk_ of the mechanisms and then the hinges moving made all of them step forward.

“Earlier,” Jaehaerys spoke up again, gesturing at Aegon and their father, “I told you that those that came before us pandered to no one, no matter their wealth, no matter their influence or standing. A dragon’s word was law.” The smile on his face was coy and his eyes seemed to swirl like molten silver in the torchlight. He turned from them to face the chest, and reached out with one hand, “Since the civil war that ruined our House, our family has made concession after concession to those that Aegon the Dragon made kneel,” his voice had taken on a hard edge, as though he was a commander recounting his squadron’s history to new recruits. The Valyrians that stood before them had brought fists to their hearts in salute, the heads raised, faces stern.

“Houses who saught what was our right, animals who see themselves a dragon’s equal. I have seen the darkened gazes of those who grace this court, I have heard from the shadows, whispers of weakness and notions of want.” Aegon turned to look at his father then, they had heard such themselves in the meetings to which Lord Varys was summoned, but the King had dismissed the notion of unrest at such a prosperous time.

“They rebelled against Aerys because he was mad, a man with no dragon. A man who spoke of fire with mirth and glee, yet his mind was blackened ash. They rose against him, because he was a man, their equal, their lesser. For how can a man fear something that appears as he does? How can he obey it? Be ruled by it? How can he subdue his greatest instinct, when there is no greater threat?” He ran his hand over the rim of the chest, “‘A Dragon without a dragon is no Dragon at all.’ Those were the words I heard in my dreams on my journey South, to Valyria.” He dipped both hands into the chest and raised out something as large and as round as a man’s head. And when he turned to them, his eyes seemed to glow, as the torchlight bounced off the blue object.

“And that is what we shall become again. Let them all know. Let them all understand.”

 _By all the Gods…_ Aegon’s eyes were wide and awed as he made out the scaled patterned along the surface of the object. “That we…” Jaehaerys said with triumph in his voice. Aegon heard his father gasp, only to be joined by Aerion and Rhaenys, as they too saw what he did.

“Are Dragons.”

 

 

**A/N**

**Hey guys *hides behind a large weirwood in anticipation of the stones, vegetables and undesirables that might be thrown his way* Sorry this took as long as it did, sort of lost myself in school and RL. Hope you enjoyed it though, please comment and let me know what you think; is it bang on? Have I lost my characters in the long hiatus? Anything and everything you think about it. Thank you all for being patient and sticking around.**

**Gratitude,**

**KadenIV**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your time.
> 
>  
> 
> For those asking for an image of Haelyra, this is one of the several images that inspired her; https://www.pinterest.com/pin/491736853057618752/


	8. Not an Update guys, just a heads up.

I'm sorry about the lack of communication, and the infrequency of chapters. I finished my first semester of Medschool a couple of weeks ago and the exams that came after took quite a bit out of me, so the last week or so has been about relaxing and sleeping it off. This summer will be quite a hectic one for me, partaking in a volunteer programme. I will make sure I find the time to write some higher quality stuff for you guys to enjoy, maybe see if I can implement longer chapters, or whether I should keep them around the 5k/6k mark.

Though I have been relaxing and writing less, I have been using that time to world build and create a small side project of mine. I've always been a good fan of well done roleplaying, whether text-base or in person. And with my love for the world and the history of A Song of Ice and Fire, I thought why not cross the two and make something, as I have done in the past. 

I'm the admin of an ASOIAF RP server that I created and have been working on . The change in universe happens pre-canon so is heavily alternate universe. I'll leave a brief synopsis, and small prompt. The RP itself is to start either today Sat, June 23, or tomorrow, Sun, June 24. Join the server for more information and access to the created lore, history and timeline. Along with available characters and houses. Original characters are welcome within the context of RP, as long as they meet the expected requirements. There are some roleplay mechanics that will be implemented, like dice rolling.

[Conquest of the East](https://discord.gg/ZM2y9cr) 

If Maegor II had not been usurped and passed over in favor of his uncle Aegon V at the Great Council of 233 AC. If the Blackfyre Rebellion had been quelled and a solution found before it grew beyond reason, if a King with vision and the will to follow it lead the Realm. The World, ripe for the taking.

* * *

> The birth of Magnys Targaryen to King Maegor II Targaryen and Alys Arryn was the the beginning of an era of progress in the Seven Kingdoms, even if they were not at all aware of it at the time. Deprived of his father's love for the entirety of his childhood, Magnys thirsted for his approval, wanting to prove himself worthy of his position as heir, Prince of Dragonstone and of his father's affection. His drive for approval lead him to become a terrifying force on the battlefield and a masterful tactician, earning him the respect of his peers but never his father's, and ultimately drove Magnys to become a cold man.
> 
> Upon realizing that his venture for his father's approval would bare no fruit, he thrust himself wholly into his studies. Learning all that he could about the Realm, the kingdoms it consisted of as means to put himself in the strongest position possible, in order that when the day came for his coronation, he would be ready.

> That day came with his father Maegor II, dying from a winter chill at the age of four and thirty. Young Magnys was ten and six when the ringlet of blackened steel and dark rubies was placed upon his head. He wasted no time establishing himself. Magnys his betrothal leading to his marriage to Laena Velaryon who gave birth to his heir, Prince Raenar Targaryen, in the year 259 AC. Now, years on, the Realm is stronger and more united than it has been since its founding by Aegon the Dragon. His vision of progress within the Seven Kingdoms and the world beyond its borders now nearly in arm's reach.

 

There are Original Characters and Canon Character Claims are still available.

* * *

This book, is not on hold. It is not being discarded either. It is simply being placed on the back burner for the summer because of how little time I will have to sit and write something of the usual quality that I want for this Fic. There are still a number of updates you guys can expect to drop over the Summer, so don't worry.

 


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